


Wick

by gutsandglitter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Kidlock, M/M, The Secret Garden AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-05-23 11:30:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gutsandglitter/pseuds/gutsandglitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Secret Garden Sherlock AU, because why not.</p><p>After a cholera epidemic kills his parents, 10 year-old John Watson is uprooted from his life in India and sent to live with his fearsome Uncle Mycroft. (Eventually Mystrade.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burn

**Author's Note:**

> Hi all,
> 
> So I recently saw a concert version of The Secret Garden musical, and naturally all I could think about was how well the Sherlock characters would translate into the story and now here we are. Because of the source material there's obviously going to be quite a bit of kid!lock, but I think I'd ultimately classify it as a Mystrade story. 
> 
> Also, since I've been listening to the cast recording of the musical non-stop this story is probably going to fall a little closer to that version as opposed to the movie or book. And a lyric or two from the show might pop up along the way because they're just too good not to use. 
> 
> Many thanks to my beta aboxfullofdarkness!
> 
> ~Bee

In the city of Varanasi on the banks of the Ganges, two pyres were constructed side by side.

An elderly Indian man circled the pyres three times carrying a clay water pot on his left shoulder. The unforgiving winter sun beat down upon his back as he walked, causing pearlescent beads of sweat to bloom and trace their way down the knobby buttons of his spine. He scrubbed the sleeve of his stained white robe across the back of his neck before dropping the pot in between the pyres.

Traditionally this ritual was performed by the family of the deceased. Family members would gather together and cremate their dead before returning home for a grand shared feast. But the deceased couple no longer had any living relations, at least on this continent, so this stranger had been tasked with releasing their souls into the ether. He had never met the people on the pyre before; he did not know their names nor the unfortunate circumstances that had led them here. He simply knew that this was his job, and that he would be able to go home for supper shortly. He completed his final pass around the pyres and turned his back to them.

After he had turned around, a child came forward from the shadows to hand him a lit torch. With a simple murmured prayer the man moved the torch behind his back and touched the torch to each pyre in turn. The flame slowly passed from the head of the torch to the wood and kindling draping the bodies. It licked and slithered its way along its fresh territory, digging fingers of heat and smoke deep through the gaps in the wood in order to find its special treat.

Within fifteen minutes, the bodies of James and Annora Watson had become completely engulfed in flames.

*****

Five thousand miles away, in the moors outside Yorkshire, ten year-old John Watson looked up at the manor house that was to be his new home.

Holmescroft was a massive yet wholly unmemorable house. The grey stone building front was simple, with a half-dozen chimneys showing just over the roof and cream-colored marble steps leading up to the front door. Rows upon rows of uniform single-pane windows spoke of the dozens of rooms inside, each as dull and lifeless as the last. It was a house that had clearly not sheltered guests, heard the sound of laughter, or seen the first sparks of a tender love affair in a very long time. Its hulking frame loomed over the moor like an enormous tombstone, casting black shadows across the wuthering fields of heather.

It was nothing like John's home in India.

“I'm cold,” he said sullenly, wrapping his arms around his thin frame.

“Yes, certainly colder here than in the far east, I'd expect,” Mrs. Hudson agreed as she stepped down from the carriage. “But don't you worry dear, I popped into town last week and bought you several lovely wool jumpers to keep you warm. They're in the wardrobe of your new bedroom.”

Mrs. Hudson was the housekeeper who'd been tasked with fetching John from the train station. She was pleasant enough, John supposed, but she talked too much and seemed to think he was much younger than he actually was. When they had first been introduced she had actually pinched his cheeks.

“Will I have an ayah here?” John asked. He'd had an ayah back in India whom he had loved very dearly, but she was dead now. Just about everyone John had ever known had died.

Mrs. Hudson furrowed her brow. “I'm not sure what that is dear, but I'm sure your uncle would be happy to buy you one. Speaking of which, we'd best get you inside to meet your uncle now.”

She ushered John up the front steps into the massive stone foyer where a petite woman with dark hair greeted them.

“Ah, there she is. John, this is Molly, the chamber maid.”

Molly curtsied. “It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Master John.”

John awkwardly bowed to her and she laughed. “Such a gentleman, this one!” she said with a warm smile. John liked her instantly.

“Is Mister Holmes available?” Mrs. Hudson asked. “I thought he would be here to meet his nephew.”

Molly shook her head. “Mister Holmes is in his study and wishes to not be disturbed. He said he had serious business to attend to.”

Mrs. Hudson clucked her tongue. “And I suppose meeting his ward for the first time isn't serious business?”

Molly pursed her lips tightly and gestured towards John, who was still in earshot.

Mrs. Hudson sighed. “Very well. Molly, take the boy upstairs and show him to his quarters. I'll bring him up some supper in a moment.”

Molly nodded. “Follow me,” she told John. “I'll expect you'll be wanting to change after your long journey.”

John's new room was large and spartan. A four-poster feather bed stood in the center of the room dressed in stark white sheets. To the left of it was a dark wood nightstand with a porcelain pitcher and washbowl atop it. Across from the bed stood a massive armoire, made of the same kind of dark wood as the nightstand. Apart from these items, the room was completely empty. Even the sunlight that streamed through the small window seemed cold and dim as it fell across the bare floor.

“I'll leave you to get settled,” Molly said after a moment, turning and closing the door behind herself.

John took several deep breaths before barreling towards the bed and throwing himself upon it. He buried his face in one of the goosedown pillows and began to cry.

*****

Mycroft Holmes was an imposing man in both stature and countenance.

He carried his tall, slender frame with impeccable posture. This was intentional. He had known early on that he was destined to be a great man, and as a result he had spent his childhood studying paintings and biographies of other great men in order to study their mannerisms. The posture was adopted from Admiral Lord Nelson. His back stayed straight and his arms hung perfectly parallel to his torso as he walked, keeping his chest from puffing out like an overcompensating dictator. His laugh, when it made a rare appearance, was Kaiser Wilhelm II's, whom Mycroft had once met a dinner party. Brief, low in the throat, and with only the smallest upturn of the corners of the mouth.

His attention to his clothing (though not his fashion itself) was Oscar Wilde's. Each of his three-piece suits was handmade and expertly tailored to each and every curve of his body. The pocket squares were all imported silk and could be folded in a multitude of ways, depending on the cut of the suit it was to accent. The only item on his person that could ever be considered less than perfect was the gold pocket watch whose chain hung just above his middle. It had been his grandfather's, and though it was a plain working man's timepiece Mycroft treasured it above all his material possessions.

He was by no means a handsome man, though he was certainly interesting to look at. He was the kind of man who'd catch your eye in a crowd and hold it up until he completely passed from frame of view. His face was wide with a beakish nose, and though he was scarcely thirty years old, his auburn hair had already begun to recede. His painfully blue eyes were striking and framed with spidery premature lines. When at rest his thin lips were held just short of a perpetual sneer, and when displeased he had a way of pursing them which could strike fear into the hearts of the bravest of men.

He stood in the window of his study with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the coachman steer the carriage back to the stables.

“Anthea, take this down,” he said after a moment.

His secretary pulled a fresh sheet of paper from the desk and balanced her fountain pen above it. “Ready sir,” she said, sounding bored.

“Dear Prime Minister,” he began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. “So sorry to bother you sir, but I was just wondering if you might have a moment to come round and meet the boy.”

Mycroft glared at her. “I believe I made it clear that I was not to be disturbed this evening.”

“Yes sir,” she said slowly. “But the boy has arrived.”

“I am well aware of this. And I believe you are well aware that I am to never be disturbed during my work.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. “I am aware, but I thought-”

“Yes you did, and that was your first mistake,” Mycroft said icily.

Anthea covered her mouth with her palm to stifle a snicker.

Mrs. Hudson's gaze dropped to the study's scarlet carpets. “My apologies, sir. It appears I was mistaken.” She quietly left the room.

Anthea glanced at the door as it closed. “You know you could always fire her, sir.”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, Mrs. Hudson is to stay. You know how fond of her my mother was.”

Mycroft Holmes was a harsh man, but never needlessly cruel. He held his staff to a high standard, but he understood that he was responsible for them and their well-being. He was also a terribly sentimental man underneath the Ice Man bravado, especially when it came to Holmescroft. Anyone and anything that had been important to his mother was in turn important to him. Mrs. Hudson had been there since before he was born, and as far as Mycroft was concerned she was untouchable.

Mycroft turned back to the window. The coachman was gone now, and in his place stood a familiar figure. Mycroft watched as the man stooped to examine the base of the privet hedge. He felt around the gnarled roots of the shrubbery and brought a small handful of the earth up close to his face for closer examination. Mycroft watched in fascination as the man let the soil fall between his fingers before straightening up and wiping his hands on his trousers.

“Sir?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft started and cleared his throat. “I beg your pardon?”

“Dear Prime Minister,” she prompted.

“Of course,” Mycroft said, shaking his head slightly. “Dear Prime Minister...”

*****

That night John dreamed he was back in India.

He was in the street in front of his parents' home playing cricket with the boys from down the road. John was at bat, and Avi and Abeer were taunting him.

“Pucchi!” they called. “Pucchi!”

John flipped them two fingers and tapped the red earth with the tip of his bat.

Avi wound his arm back and threw the ball towards him, but it was no longer a cricket ball. It was a ball of fire, coming directly for John. He threw himself to the ground and the ball of fire sailed overhead, only to collide with the rough wood fence behind him. The fence ignited immediately, turning into a roaring inferno in a second, throwing sparks and billowing towers of smoke high into the air above the boys. John jumped up from the ground and began running. His friends were no longer with him. No one was with him; the streets of Jaipur were devoid of any signs of life.

John ran as fast as he could down the worn dirt road but the wall of fire was close behind him. He could not outrun it forever, and he knew he had only precious seconds before it caught him and burned him down to nothing.

Up ahead, he saw a vine-covered fence with a heavy wooden door in it. He knew that if he could just get through the door to the other side he would be safe. He ran faster than he ever had before, so fast that his legs were a blur beneath him. But just as he got within arm's reach of the door, the fire behind him let out an almighty roar and swallowed him whole.

*****  
John awoke in a cold sweat, tangled in the fresh sheets of the unfamiliar bed. His breath came out in short, squeaking pants, and his heartbeat felt like one long continuous vibration. As he lay on his back staring at the blank ceiling overhead, trying to slow his breathing, a noise from somewhere down the hall caught his attention.

He lifted his head and cocked an ear in the direction of the sound. It was faint, to the point where he could almost believe it was his imagination. But no, the volume rose slightly just then and John recognized the sound, as it was one he had become intimately familiar with in the days since his parents' death.

Someone in the house was crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is curious, I'm using Fountains Hall (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fountains_Hall) as a general reference for the outside of Holmescroft, with a slightly more empty version of Highclere Castle (Downton Abbey) for the interior.


	2. Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets his uncle, a bird, and a gardener. Mycroft is inconvenienced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A snippet of dialogue in this chapter was *lovingly* lifted from the musical. Don't sue me, Lucy Simon.
> 
> Also, I just want to note that I waffled a bit about making Greg and Molly brother and sister, because the last fic I wrote was Molstrade and it would be a weird transition for me, but they made such great parallels to Martha and Dickon that I couldn't help myself.
> 
> All the love to my beta aboxfullofdarkness.

John was lost deep within the folds of a dream when Molly burst into his room and awakened him.

“Rise and shine, dear,” she called in a sing-song voice.

She pulled the curtains back, releasing a bright burst of white sunshine.

John grumbled and threw an arm over his eyes. “Please, can’t I sleep just a bit longer?” he whined.

Molly planted her hands on her hips. “Now what would you want to do that for?”

John mumbled something incoherent. He tried desperately to remember what it is he had been dreaming about. There had been a door, he thought. And someone had been crying behind it.

Molly rested her hands on the windowsill and gazed out at the moor. “Oh, how can you think of sleep when you have such a glorious day waiting for you outside?”

When John refused to move, she tried a different approach. She sat on the edge of his bed and placed a hand on his duvet-covered feet. 

“If you won’t get up for your own sake, do it for mine then,” she said softly. “Your uncle will be ever so cross with me if he finds I let you lay about all day.”

John considered this for a moment. He hadn’t met his Uncle Mycroft yet, but from the way Mrs. Hudson had spoken of him the evening before he sounded quite scary. He liked Molly, and he didn’t want her to be yelled at.

He removed his arm from across his eyes and looked at her. “Alright, I’m getting up,” he said. 

Molly beamed. “Brilliant!” She busied herself by the armoire, pulling out the clothes that Mrs. Hudson had bought for him. “And what would you like to do today?”

John threw his legs over the side of the bed. “What is there to do here?” he asked sullenly. “There aren’t any other children for me to play with. There’s just the stupid old moor.”

“Nonsense! Why, your uncle’s gardens are some of the most beautiful in the country. Full of all sorts of places to run and play and hide. And don’t speak too harshly about the moor, it holds a magic all of its own. I used to play out there with my brother Greg when we were about your age.”

“How can a moor be magical?”

Molly turned to him and tapped the side of her nose with her index finger. “You’ll have to find that out yourself, won’t you? Now get dressed, quick as you like. Best not waste a minute of this sunshine, it won’t last for long. ”

*****

Mycroft’s morning was not off to a good start. 

The day’s papers were plastered with news that the prime minister was going through with a piece of legislation that Mycroft had in no uncertain terms advised him against. The legislation was bad enough, but for Mycroft Holmes to find out about it from a newspaper was inexcusable. 

To make matters worse, Anthea had fallen ill during the night and had not been able to report for work that morning. On the past few occasions where Mycroft had been forced to work without her, he had only been able to accomplish approximately half of what he needed to, which was also unacceptable.

Thus he was in a foul mood by the time he left the breakfast table and began making his way to the study. He was completely lost in thought, and therefore didn’t see John until he had nearly collided with him.

“Oh!” Mycroft exclaimed, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry sir,” John said. He looked up at the tall stranger’s face. “Are you my Uncle Mycroft?”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I am,” he said slowly. “Good morning.” He could tell that the child was sizing him up, which made Mycroft feel terribly uncomfortable.

“Are you going to be my father now?” John asked.

If it weren’t such a pitiful question, Mycroft might have laughed. “I am your guardian. Though I am a poor one for any child,” he added.

John looked down at his feet, apparently disappointed with this answer. 

Inwardly, Mycroft cursed his sister. He cursed her for going to India. He cursed her for not speaking to him in ten years, but still thinking it was a good idea to name him in her will as her son’s guardian. He cursed her for having the nerve to die so young. 

Damn her, he thought. Damn her and her bloody good-for-nothing husband. Damn them and damn the damned cholera and damn-

“What happens to people when they die?” John asked suddenly.

Mycroft’s stomach turned. How on earth was he supposed to answer that? This had been a terrible mistake. He’d had the most egregious lapse in judgement when he had agreed to take the boy in. He wasn’t fit to be a guardian, to this child or any other. John would have been better off in an orphanage, or living on the streets in India. Anywhere but under Mycroft Holmes’ roof. 

“I suppose,” he said, desperately searching for the kinds of words the boy needed to hear. “I suppose they live on in our memories. They become ghosts, of sorts, to those that still hold on to them.” Satisfied that this was the best he was going to be able to do, he gave the boy a curt nod. “I offer you my deepest sympathies for your losses,” he said, and retreated as quickly as he could to the safety of his study.

John stared after him for a moment. “Didn’t my mother have any other family?” he wondered aloud. 

*****

Not that John would admit it, but Molly was right - it was a beautiful day. Though January’s chill still hung thick in the air, the sun was making a wonderfully welcome appearance. Fat cotton ball clouds lolled across an aquamarine sky without a care in the world or anywhere to be in a particular hurry, while spring-hungry swallows dipped and darted below them. 

When John opened the heavy oak front doors of Holmescroft, he was surprised to see a robin sitting at the top of the steps. He waited a moment, expecting the bird to fly away in fear. But it didn’t. The tiny red-breasted fellow cocked his head at John before letting out a small chirp and hopping once to his left. It looked up at the boy, as if expecting a response.

John took a step out the door and the bird flinched but did not move. 

He took another step, and the bird hopped back onto the topmost stair. Your move, it seemed to say. It was almost as if they were playing a game, though John had no idea what the rules were.

“Are you hurt?” he asked the robin. He had a soft spot for sick and injured things. Back in India, he had once rescued a dollarbird with a broken wing and nursed him back to health. He’d called the bird Ormond, and had kept him as a pet for more than a year until John’s ayah had knocked the cage over and he had flown out the window, never to be seen again.

He took another step forward. If the robin was hurt, he could care for it like he had Ormond. The robin could be his pet, his first friend in the dreary house. He would take such good care of it, and he would never be so careless as to knock its cage over.

Eagerly, John took two more steps forward. This time the robin took wing, sailing down the steps and landing in the driveway. Once more, he turned to look at John.

John was disheartened because the bird was obviously uninjured, but he still continued to move towards it in the hopes that it might at least let him pet it.

They continued their strange dance for quite a ways, the robin flying ahead a few meters and landing, then taking off again once John got to what it had decided was too close. It took John down the drive and around the back of the house to the rose gardens, which lay dormant in the face of the January chill. 

Molly was right about the gardens. They were beautiful, even in the dead of winter. Neat cobblestone pathways snaked through the beds of sleeping rosebushes, all of them evenly-spaced and carefully pruned into perfect round shrubs. Trellises punctuated the trail and shaded the path with wrought iron arches laced through with climbing vines. Ivory marble statues peered over the largest of the bushes, long-limbed women draped in togas and laurel wreaths staring vacantly across the sea of green as if searching for lovers they knew were never to return. 

Everything was well-tended and tidy, but had just enough softness and variability to keep an air of whimsy about the place. If the roses had been in full bloom, John wouldn’t have been half-surprised to see a small blond-haired girl wandering down the path with a bucket of red paint and a procession of animate playing cards. 

The gardens stood as a stark and welcome contrast to the drab and lifeless house, and for the first time since the death of his parents, John felt a small bubble of hope well up in his chest. Perhaps Holmescroft wouldn’t be an entirely unhappy place to live after all. 

Just as he thought this, his feathered companion decided it had had enough of their walk  
and took flight, soaring up and over the rose bushes and out of John’s line of sight. 

John scowled and shoved his hands in his pockets. So much for his new friend. He kicked at a pebble on the ground and began to trudge along the cobblestone path in the general direction that the robin had gone. 

As he rounded a corner marked with a particularly mournful-looking statue, he heard the first strains of a voice floating from somewhere farther down the path. John followed the voice deeper into the garden, listening hard as the voice grew clearer. It was a man’s singing voice, deep but light and warm. 

_Winter's on the wing,_  
_here's a fine spring morn'._  
_Comin' clear through the night,_  
_come the day I say._

John rounded another corner and was finally able to see the singer, a tall man in the center of the garden who was carefully fixing a length of burlap over one of the rose bushes.

_And you'll be here to see it,_  
_stand and breathe it all the day._  
_Stoop, and feel it. Stop and hear it,_  
_spring, I say..._

The man paused his work as he held this last note, which was cut short when he saw John.

“Well, hello there,” the man called jovially. “Would you happen to be the John Watson I’ve heard so much about?”

John crossed his arms across his chest. He knew that was the sort of thing grown-ups say all the time that wasn’t really true. He’d only arrived the night before. How could anyone have much of anything to say about him yet? 

Still, the man seemed genuinely friendly. His smile was bright and stretched across his tanned face, making his warm brown eyes crinkle at the corners.His dark hair was shot through with silver, though John didn’t think he looked old enough for silver hair. As he walked towards John he carried himself with an easy, almost loping gait--comparing him to a large Golden Retriever didn’t seem like it would be too far off the mark. 

The man wiped his dirty hands on his trousers and extended one for John to shake. 

“Name’s Greg Lestrade,” he said, cheerfully ignoring the fact that John hadn’t answered his question. “You can call me Greg, or Lestrade, or even ‘Oi, you there!’ and I’ll probably respond to it.” 

John laughed at the joke and eased slightly. He accepted the proffered hand and shook, surprised by the rough and calloused palms.

The name rang a bell for John. “Are you Molly’s brother?” 

Greg grinned. “I am at that. I’m the gardener, in case you couldn’t tell,” he said, gesturing to his mud-caked clothing.

John nodded. “What are you doing with all that cloth?” he asked, pointing to the rolls of burlap.

“Storm’s coming in tonight, should be a nasty one. Some of these roses were bred for better climates, so they don’t hold up too well in wind and rain and the like. I’m wrapping ‘em up so they don’t get too mussed.”

“So it will be like they’re wearing raincoats?” John asked.

Greg let out a surprised bark of laughter. “Pretty much, yeah. Raincoats, that’s good.” He smiled again at John. “What are you gettin’ up to this morning?”

John shrugged. “I was following a robin, but he flew away.”

Greg put his hands in his pockets. “So the robin’s introduced himself to you already? Interesting.”

John’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve seen the robin too?”

“‘Course,” Greg replied. “He’s one of my closest friends. He comes ‘round now and again for chat with me while I work.”

John’s raised eyebrows furrowed to an almost painful degree. “The robin talks to you?”

Greg laughed. “Nah, not as much. He’s a bird of few words. But he’s a great listener. If you’ve ever got a secret, he’s the one to tell it to.”

John wasn’t sure what to make of this statement, or even the man who had said it. He was like no one John had ever met before, but he felt strangely at ease with him.

Greg seemed to understand how he felt. “Well, if robin has left you for the time being, would you like to help me get the rose bushes into their raincoats?”

John nodded. He had often helped his ayah with her chores back in India, and he felt very grown-up at the prospect of being a gardener’s assistant.

Greg showed him how long each strip of burlap should be, and how to get it folded around the widest parts of the bushes and secured with twine. 

They talked while they worked, and John learned more about the strange bird-whispering gardener. Greg and Molly’s father had been the senior Mister Holmes’ valet, and their mother had died while they were both still young. After her death, Greg had worked odd jobs in town for several years before coming to work at Holmescroft with his sister.

“I didn’t know a thing about gardens at first,” he explained. “Ben, the old gardener, he took me in and taught me everything I know. God rest his soul, he’s been gone twelve, maybe thirteen years now.”

John was about to ask Greg what he thought happened to people when they die when he heard a noise from up the path. He turned and saw his Uncle Mycroft walking towards them. His gaze was trained down at the ground, and he seemed to be lost in thought.

Greg grinned brightly. “Good morning, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft looked up, startled. “Oh, good morning, Gregory. Apologies, I was miles away.”

Greg smiled. “No need to apologize. I’m sure whatever it is you were thinking about is vital to queen and country.”

Mycroft sighed. “Gregory, for the last time, I only occupy-”

“A minor position in the British government, I know, I know.” Greg held up his hands in a gesture of mea culpa. “You know me, sir, I just like to tease.”

Mycroft sniffed and looked down at John, whom he appeared to only have just noticed. “Oh. Hello,” he said stiffly.

“Hello,” John replied.

“Hope you don’t mind, I’ve roped your nephew into helping me get the roses ready for the storm,” Greg said.

Mycroft nodded. “Very well. That seems a productive use of his time.”

He stood awkwardly for a few moments, obviously trying to think of something to say. 

“If you’ll excuse me, I should be getting back to the house,” he said finally.

Greg nodded and smiled again. “Good seeing you, Mister Holmes.”

Mycroft nodded. “You as well.” He turned on heel and made his way back up the path as quickly as decorum permitted.

Greg chuckled softly to himself before kneeling back down and tying off the bush in front of him. John followed suit, returning to the shrub he had been working on.

After a few minutes, John finally broke the silence.

“Has my Uncle Mycroft ever been married?”

The question had been nagging at him all morning. It seemed strange to him that his uncle would live on such a large estate by himself, save the handful of servants. 

Greg shook his head. “No, never married. Married to his work if anything, he is.” Greg rocked back on his heels and wiped his hands on his trousers. “There was one bloke a few years back that used to come ‘round all the time. We were all sure he’d stay, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.”

John furrowed his brow. “Uncle Mycroft was in love with a man? How can that be?”

Greg ducked his head to hide his smile. “Put it this way: the heart is like a rose. You think of a rose, you gen’rally think fat red blossoms, but really there’s about a million different sorts of them. Big ones, small ones, climbers, perennials, annuals, all in every color under the sun. And each type needs something different to make it grow. This _gruss an aachen_ here,” he pointed to the shrub he was covering, “loves as much sun as it can get. The _la Frances_ over by the house do better in the shade. But when they find exactly what it is that they need to grow, each one blooms just as beautiful as any other. Does that make sense?”

It didn’t, but John nodded anyway. 

*****

Back in the house, Mycroft watched the pair intently from the window of his study. He knew he should get back to work, but he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away. Seeing Greg be so natural and friendly to the boy, so much more avuncular than Mycroft could ever be, caused a strange mixture of sorrow and joy to well up beneath his breast. 

He allowed himself to wonder, just for a moment, if perhaps this was the right place for the boy after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song Greg is singing is from the musical, because he's meta like that.
> 
> It's a beautiful song, you can check out the inimitable John Cameron Mitchell singing it here:  
> https://youtu.be/Jam-MgKnBew


	3. Books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John explores the house.

That night the promised storm raged and roared with tremendous fury.

John, usually a feather-light sleeper, was so exhausted from his day working in the garden that he slept through the entire thing.

*****

The next morning when Molly came to pull the curtains, they were both disappointed to see an ash-colored sky and lingering wet from the night’s rain.

“Oh, what a pity,” Molly said with a sigh. “Looks like you’ll have to stay inside today.”

John pouted. “I wanted to work with Greg in the gardens again today.”

Molly smiled affectionately. “I know, he told me last night how much of a help to him you were. But you’ll just have to wait until tomorrow for that, he’s not going to be getting any work done in this weather.”

“Do the servants all live here in the house? I could go downstairs and visit with him anyway.”

Molly smiled. “Most of us live downstairs, yes. But Greg stays in the groundskeeper’s cottage out by the old stables. It’s still a bit of a walk though, and you’ll catch your death if you go out there to see him.”

John flopped back down on the bed. “Then what am I going to do in this stupid old house all day?”

Molly shrugged her shoulders and went to the wardrobe to pull out his clothing for the day. “If you really can’t think of anything to do, you could always help me with the tidying up,” she said over her shoulder. “Changing the linens, mopping the floors, emptying the chamber pots…”

John jumped off the bed. “No, I’m sure I’ll find something to do,” he said quickly.

Molly laughed.

***** 

John wandered the halls, trying the knob on every door he came across. More often than not they were locked, but occasionally one granted him access. He almost liked the locked ones better, the mystery of a locked door was much more interesting than the rooms behind the unlocked ones. He counted six guest bedrooms, each clearly decorated with a specific level of guest importance in mind. Seven lavatories, all nearly identical with their white marble tiling and silver fixtures. Three stuffy sitting rooms with stiff, high-backed furniture that positively screamed “DO NOT TOUCH”. 

Some of the rooms were more interesting and warranted further exploration. The formal dining room had an enormous cherry wood table that could easily seat thirty, and the were walls completely lined with regal portraits of what John could only guess were distant relatives. Then there was the spacious ballroom that hadn’t seen a pair of dancing feet in a decade, complete with a damask-draped piano and dusty velveteen curtains adorned with gold silk tassels. Lastly was the uncomfortably-warm solarium filled with exotic plants creeping out of their too-small pots onto the black and white tiled floors. 

Finally, John came to the library. While almost every other room he had come across had the distinct feeling of disuse hanging in the air, this room was clearly well-used and well-loved. 

The hardwood floors could scarcely be seen, for they were covered in sprawling, vibrant Persian rugs that John was sure would feel like heaven under bare feet. The fireplace was so massive that had there not been a merry little crackling fire inside John could have easily walked without stooping under the ornate light stone mantle, which was bedecked with vines and tiny blossoms and fat bunches of grapes that looked positively succulent. In front of the fireplace sat a large plush sofa and two decadent-looking armchairs, each looking cared-for but worn. 

And the books. Oh, the books.

Every wall of the room was lined with bookcases which stretched clear up to the ceiling. Each and every one of them was filled to capacity and then some; excess books were stuck into every cranny and nook of open space, and there were neat piles stacked to precarious heights below the window sills.

John gaped at the almost obscene enormity of the library, completely unable to process it. After exploring the stark and neglected abyss that was the rest of the house, John never would have expected this room to exist anywhere on the property of Holmescroft. This room had an air of disorder to it. Life happened in this room, and it was comfortable. It felt like it would be easy to call this place home.

John wandered the perimeter of the room, absently stroking some of the thick bindings of the books. “Has Uncle Mycroft read all of these?” he wondered aloud. It seemed impossible, but his uncle was such a bizarre man that it probably wouldn’t have been out of the question.

John experimentally pulled one tome from the shelf and examined it. It was in a peculiar language that appeared to be either Latin or Greek. He put it away and began searching the spines for an English title. 

Eventually he found a book on the military that looked interesting enough and settled cross-legged in one of the luscious leather armchairs. John liked reading about the military. Soldiers were brave and noble and they never got scared and they never missed their ayahs. John wanted to be a soldier when he grew up. Either that, or a doctor. Or a pirate. 

The book wasn’t terribly thick, but it was shot through with big words that John didn’t understand. He should have put it back and found something more suitable for his reading level, but he was stubborn and did not easily admit defeat. So he carried on reading, simply skipping over the words he didn’t understand. 

“Let us admit in fact it has in War even its own ______. Over and above the result of the calculation of space, time, and quantity, we must allow a certain percentage which boldness _____ from the weakness of others, whenever it gains the mastery. It is therefore, virtually, a creative power. This is not difficult to demonstrate ________. As often as boldness encounters ______, the probability of the result is of necessity in its favour, because the very state of ______ implies a loss of _______ already. It is only when it encounters cautious ______ —which we may say is just as bold, at all events just as strong and powerful as itself—that it is at a disadvantage; such cases, however, rarely occur. Out of the whole ______ of ______ men in the world, the great majority are so from _____.”

Despite the gaps in his comprehension, John found himself enjoying what he was reading. He felt very grown-up sitting in Mycroft’s chair in front of the fire, reading a very grown-up book. 

He was so engrossed in the text that he didn’t notice Molly walk into the room, and he jumped when she said his name.

“Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you! I’m so sorry dear,” she said.

John shook his head. “‘S fine.”

“Your uncle has asked to see you in his study.”

John furrowed his brow. “Now?”

“Best not to keep him waiting.”

Though John had only encountered the man twice, he knew Molly was almost certainly correct. 

He followed her down the hall to one of the few doors he hadn’t tried yet.

Molly paused before it and knocked twice.

Mycroft’s cold, clipped voice came from the other side. “Enter.”

John looked up at Molly, who nodded at him. An icy feeling of dread began to spread throughout his stomach. He shook his head. She nodded again, and he shook his head once more. She made a face at him, then opened the door and gave him an unceremonious shove through it. John stumbled into the study and the heavy door clicked shut behind him.

The study was large and extremely tidy, a far-cry from the friendly chaos of the library. There were no bookshelves here, no soft couches. The fireplace was a small dark stone number, and even the fire inside it seemed to burn cold. There was a single rug on the floor, solid navy blue except for a gold frame along the outer edge. A larger-than-life portrait of King Edward hung behind the desk, surveying the room with his disapproving little piggish eyes. 

Uncle Mycroft sat behind the massive oak desk in a straight-backed chair that looked dreadfully uncomfortable. In front of the desk were two equally uncomfortable-looking chairs, one of which was occupied by the most beautiful woman John had ever seen in his entire life. 

She was dressed primly in a white blouse and emerald-colored skirt, but they were tailored to be just slightly more form-fitting than seemed appropriate. John could almost make out the curve of her ample bosom beneath her blouse, and his eyes could trace the lines of her hips under her silky skirts. She had her hair pulled into a neat chignon with just a few wisps hanging around her aristocratic face, which was turned towards him with an expression that was equal parts boredom and amusement. Looking at her gave John a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach, which immediately left him as soon as he looked back at his uncle.

“Please, do sit down,” Mycroft said, gesturing to the empty chair. 

John complied, sitting down and folding his hands in his lap. The chair was too tall for him; his toes just barely skimmed the floor with his spine pressed against the unforgiving chair back.

Mycroft gestured to the beautiful woman. “John Watson, this is my secretary, Anthea.”

“Hello,” John said meekly.

She gave him a catlike smile and inclined her head.

John turned back to Mycroft, who watched him over the tops of his spectacles for several moments before speaking. 

“Are you being made comfortable here?”

John nodded. “Yes sir.”

“And Molly and Mrs. Hudson are taking satisfactory care of you?”

John nodded again. “Yes sir, they’ve been very kind to me.”

“Very good.” Mycroft carefully looked at John again, as if he were trying to deduce something.

“Is there anything you need? Would you like some...toys or books?”

John shook his head. “No thank you, sir. I actually just found your library; I was reading when Molly came and found me.”

Mycroft’s brow furrowed. “But I don’t believe I have any children’s books in the library.”

John shrugged. “I don’t particularly like children’s books sir, except Rikki Tikki Tavi. I like reading books about the military. I was just reading one called On War, it was very good.”

Mycroft peered at him, an almost-smile playing around his thin lips. “Curious,” he said. “Reading Clausewitz at ten. Almost like-” he looked at Anthea and stopped abruptly. 

“Very well,” he said, more sternly this time. “If you think of something you desire, please tell Molly or Mrs. Hudson and Anthea will see to it. I will let you return to your reading.”

John stood, thankful to be out of the awful chair. “Thank you, sir.”

He had almost made it out of the room when a thought struck him.

He turned back to his uncle, who was already engrossed in his papers.

“Sir?” he asked.

Mycroft looked up. “Yes, child?”

John folded his hands behind his back. “I er, I’ve actually just thought of something I would like. If it’s not too much trouble, that is.”

Mycroft looked up. “What is it?”

John looked down at his shoes. “I ah, might I have a bit of earth, sir?”

Mycroft blinked. “A bit of earth?”

“Yes sir. To plant a garden of my own. I enjoyed working in your gardens with Greg yesterday, I think I would like having a little one of my own. If it’s not too much trouble.”

Mycroft stared dumbly at him before inclining his head slowly. “Yes, I believe that can be arranged.”

John beamed. “Thank you, sir.”

He left the room in a hurry.

Mycroft stared at the study door for several moments, completely baffled. “A bit of earth,” he said quietly. “He wants a bit of earth.”

Anthea crossed her legs and tapped her pen to her notebook. “Strange child, that one. I would have shot high, asked for a pony.”

Mycroft turned back to her with a smirk. “If you wish, I could arrange for you to receive one in place of your Christmas bonus next year.”

She made a face. “No thank you, I’d prefer money.” She turned and looked back at the door. “He seems to have taken quite a liking to Greg,” she said mildly.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “Yes, well, the man is not without his charms,” he said stiffly. “If we could return to the task at hand?”

Anthea smiled to herself as she turned to a fresh page in her notebook.


	4. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John finds the source of the mysterious crying. Greg confronts Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: this chapter contains a brief mention of suicide.
> 
> (And thanks as always to my lovely beta aboxfullofdarkness!)

That night the wind and rain returned with a vengeance. 

Since John had been cooped up in the house all day he was still brimming with energy, and any attempts at sleep seemed to be for naught. He turned and tossed in his too-large bed like a small madman, mashing his pillows and throwing his covers off only to pull them back up moments later. After nearly an hour of this, he threw himself back on his pillows with an aggravated sigh and wished that he had brought the book from the library to bed with him.

As he lay staring at the ceiling and listening to the crackling of distant thunder, a small and now familiar sound crept under the door and into the room.

John’s chest ached as he heard the plaintive cries echoing down the hall. He longed to comfort whomever was hurting so deeply, and once again he wondered whom it might be. Molly and Mrs. Hudson’s rooms were too far away for the sounds of their cries to reach him. He didn’t know where Uncle Mycroft slept, or his angelic assistant. It could have been one of them, or someone he hadn’t met yet. 

After several minutes of listening, which only served to make John feel more restless, he decided it was high time to investigate. 

As quietly as he could, John crept out of bed and tugged on his dressing gown and slippers. After a moment’s hesitation he also grabbed a candle, which sprung to life with the touch of a match.

John paused at his bedroom door and tried to focus on the sounds of the sobs over the thunderous drumming of his own heartbeat. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the way the expelled air made the candle’s flame dance. He then turned the knob and tugged the door open.

The hallway was pitch-black. His small candle cast monstrous shadows upon the walls, great hulking figures with scimitar fingers and legs that came up to John’s shoulders. He momentarily considered blowing out the candle, or better yet retreating to the safety of the bedroom, but he could hear the crying more clearly now and that helped him to steel himself. 

He remembered a line from Uncle Mycroft’s book: “Only an immense force of will, which _____ itself in perseverance admired by present and future generations, can conduct to our goal...”

John swallowed hard and stepped into the hallway towards the source of the sound. 

As his eyes adjusted to the half-darkness of the hallway, he saw that a small beam of light crept out from under the door three down from his own. The closer he moved to the light, the more sure he became that this was the source of the sound. 

Oddly enough, this had been one of the doors that he had tried earlier in the day and found locked. 

Curious, he reached out and tried the handle. It gave easily and swing inward, revealing a large bedroom not unlike John’s own. 

In the center of the four-poster bed sat a boy about John’s age wrapped in a thick quilt. He was terribly thin and milk-pale, with the exception of the angry red blotches on his cheeks that had most likely been brought about by the crying. He had a thick mop of jet-black hair which hung in his eyes and cast shadows across his already-gaunt face. 

“Who are you?” the boy asked. His voice was high and reedy, and it still carried the wet traces of his earlier crying.

“I’m John Watson,” John said. “Mycroft Holmes is my uncle. Who are you?”

The boy blinked. “I’m Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft is my brother.”

The boys regarded each other suspiciously for several moments.

“Why were you crying?” John asked, tentatively stepping further into the room.

Sherlock sat up straight. “I wasn’t crying.”

“Yes you were. I heard you. I’ve heard you every night since I first got here.”

“And why are you here?” Sherlock asked.

John looked down at the floor. “My parents died of the cholera.”

Sherlock seemed to brighten at this. “My parents died when I was a baby. I’m going to die too.”

John was stunned. He took another step closer to the bed, looking even more intently at the other boy. “Why do you say that?”

“Everyone says it. They think I can’t hear them, but I can. Mrs. Hudson says I’ve never been long for this world.”

“Oh.” John didn’t know what to say to that. “Is that why you were crying? Because you’re going to die?”

Sherlock shook his head. “No. I just don’t like the thunder, that’s all.”

John considered this. “I used to not like thunder either. But my ayah told me about Indra, the god of storms. She said that thunder is just the sound of Indra fighting off the thieves who want to steal his cattle.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment. “While it is a ridiculous notion on its face, I do see how that theory might be found comforting by lesser individuals.”

“Hey!” John cried.

“What?”

“You just called me a lesser individual!”

Sherlock shrugged. “Thunder is the result of the rapid increase of pressure and temperature that surrounds a lightning bolt, which is enough to break the sound barrier. If you choose to believe in a polytheistic deity over clear-cut science…”

“I’m not the one who’s afraid of it!”

Sherlock shrunk back into his duvet cocoon. John waited for an apology, and when it became apparent that he wasn’t going to receive one, he turned on heel and made to leave the room.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“Back to my room. If you’re just going to insult my intelligence-”

“Will you come back tomorrow night?” 

Sherlock’s voice was so small and so sad that it gave John pause. He turned back to the boy in the bed, who looked like he was about to cry again.

“It’s just,” Sherlock said, “Mycroft doesn’t usually let me have visitors. He says the excitement isn’t good for my condition.”

John heard the loneliness in the other boy’s voice; it was a loneliness that he could sympathize with acutely.

John worried his lower lip with his teeth. “If I agree to come back tomorrow night, will you agree not to insult my intelligence?”

Sherlock looked down. “I will try my best not to.”

That would have to do. John nodded. “Okay then. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

*****

The next day the sun was shining, and John was brimming with excitement over his meeting with Sherlock. Though he was positively bursting with questions about the other boy, he realized that the fact that they had not been formally introduced meant that he probably wasn’t supposed to know of the other boy’s existence.

Though it pained him, he bit his tongue at breakfast when Molly asked him how he had slept.

“Fine,” he lied, pushing his porridge around with his spoon. “Can I go out and work in the gardens with Greg today?”

Molly smiled warmly. “I don’t see why not. It’s a bit chilly though, so be sure to wear a coat.”

John wolfed down the remains of his breakfast and sprinted towards the door, completely disregarding her warning. 

Greg was in the driveway meticulously trimming the privet hedges when John came out. He grinned and tipped his wool cap in the boy’s direction.

“Mornin’ John!” He called.

“Good morning Greg,” John answered. “Can I help you work again today?”

“I was hoping you’d ask that. Would you mind gathering these trimmed bits and putting them in that sack over there? When I’ve finished up we can go ‘round back and burn them.”

John’s eyes lit up. “Can I light the fire?”

Greg laughed. “We’ll see.”

John nodded amiably and bent down to gather the hedge clippings. Greg hummed as he worked, something merry and bright. John was struck by how out of place the man seemed at Holmescroft. He was not unlike the library, a bit of warmth and comfort nestled in the midst of such cold and stuffy propriety. 

A thought struck him. Greg had been at the house for a long time, and he seemed to know all about the goings-on in the main house. He would certainly know about the secret crying boy, and he was John’s best bet at getting his questions answered. Moreover, he didn’t seem like the type to tattle on John for doing something he wasn’t supposed to. 

There was just the question of how to broach the subject.

John took a deep breath. “I er, met Sherlock,” he said, aiming for a casual air. 

Greg’s pruning shears paused momentarily as Greg glanced at him. “Did you now?” The gardener asked, resuming his task.

John nodded. “Last night. I’ve been hearing him crying, and I went to go see who it was. He wasn’t very nice to me.”

Greg huffed a laugh, but it did not reach his eyes. “I can imagine,” he said, clipping a small branch. “He’s had a hard go of things, that one.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell me, please?”

Greg sighed and put his shears down. He scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck, and in that moment he looked nearly a decade older than he was.

“I know I really shouldn’t tell you,” he said slowly. “Your Uncle would have me out on my arse in a minute if he knew I was telling you these sorts of things.”

John shook his head. “Oh, I won’t tell him you told me anything! I’ve barely seen him since I got here anyhow.”

Greg sighed again and rocked back on his heels, nervously wiping his hands on his pants. 

“I suppose you have a right to know, now that you live here. You never met your grandparents, did you?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t even know I had any until my parents died.”

“Right. Well I suppose the first thing you’d need to know about them is that they were absolutely the two most in-love people you’ve ever seen. Positively mad for each other.”

John nodded, unsure of what this had to do with anything.

“They married young, had your mother and your uncle right off the bat. Years and years passed, and everyone naturally assumed they were done with the baby business. Then your grandmother gets pregnant, and everyone thinks it’s a miracle baby. You’ve never seen such a fuss over a baby not born yet.”

Greg squinted and gestured to a point just past the rose garden. “See those walls there?”

John looked and saw a massive wall covered in a thick layer of creeping ivy that he hadn’t noticed before. “Yeah?” 

“That was your grandmother’s garden. As the baby grew inside her she spent more and more time out there. She said she craved the apples from one particular tree, no other apples would do.”

Greg became quiet, and for a moment John wondered if he had changed his mind and didn’t want to tell the story anymore.

When he did speak again, his voice sounded slightly wet, like he was holding back tears.

“She ah, she pretty quickly went through all the apples she could reach from the ground. One day I guess she just really wanted one of those damned apples, because she tried to climb the tree to get to one. She fell. Broke her back. I was out here, heard her scream. I carried her back in the house, phoned the doctor. She was such a fighter, held on until they could get little Sherlock out of her. But it was just too much for her, she took her last breath just as he was taking his first.” Greg picked at a bit of dirt on his pants. “He wasn’t ready to be born,” he muttered. “Tiny little thing, so sickly. Doctor said he wouldn’t last a few hours, let alone years.”

John felt sick but forced himself to take several deep, steadying breaths before he asked the burning question. “What happened then?”

Greg screwed up his face and looked back at the garden. “Your grandfather, ah. He tried to hold on, be there for his children. But it was just too much. He couldn't live without her. So he went to go be with her. Your poor uncle, he was the one that found him. Hanging from that bloody apple tree. Your mother, God rest her soul, couldn’t bear to be in the house, so she and your father left for India. And your uncle was left here to raise Sherlock, no more than a kid ‘imself. You’d think it’d be too much sadness for one man to bear, but he does it anyhow. Tends to Sherlock, keeps the garden under lock and key. Runs the government from his office here. Goes on living.”

Greg paused and nodded as if to punctuate his story, then picked up the garden shears and moved to the next hedge. 

John was too stunned to speak again, so he silently followed Greg with his sack of sticks. After a few minutes he began to shiver and wished desperately that he had followed Molly’s advice and grabbed a coat. 

Greg noticed this and set down his shears again. “It’ll be a bit big on you, but it’ll do,” Greg said, pulling off his own coat and handing it to John. 

John nodded in silent thanks and pulled it on, thankful for the warmth despite the fact it fit him more like a dressing gown than a coat. 

*****

Later that evening, just as he and John were finishing up, Greg was summoned to Mycroft’s study by Molly.

She tutted at him as they walked back to the house, trying to brush bits of dirt off of him.

“How to you always manage to get so filthy in such a short period of time?” She asked. 

He batted her hands away. “I’m a gardener, Mols, I work in the dirt. Part and parcel of the job description. And you’d best stop trying to get that dirt off me, if I look too clean Mr. Holmes is going to wonder what he’s paying me for.”

Molly rolled her eyes and sighed. “Fine, fine. Just try not to rip any more of your things, I’m behind on my mending and I wouldn’t be able to get around to fixing anything for your for ages.”

“You know you sound like mum when you say things like that,” he said with a teasing grin.

Molly swatted at his arm. “Oi, say that again and we’ll see if I ever mend anything for you again.”

Greg laughed as they reached the door. 

Molly squeezed his shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” Greg replied, giving a quick knock on the door.

After a moment’s pause the door swung open to reveal Mr. Holmes’ pretty assistant.

She flashed a devastating smile. “Hiya Greg. I was just on my way out, I’ll leave you two alone,” she said with a wicked inflection which made Greg’s heartbeat quicken.

She stepped out into the hallway, and Greg stepped into the study. Anthea tugged the door shut behind herself, fulfilling her promise and leaving Greg alone with Mycroft. 

Mycroft was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves with his tie loosened, looking over a fat sheaf of papers. He glanced up as Greg came in and unconsciously smoothed his tie.

“Gregory, thank you for coming. I apologize for my appearance, it has been quite a day.”

“Nah, don’t apologize. You look good. I mean, you always look-” Greg scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m the one bringing a cloud of dirt into the house wit’ me. Don’t even have a coat on, your nephew nicked mine earlier.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows shot up. “He did? Gracious, I will see that he returns it at once.”

Greg laughed. “Nah, I lent it to him. He was so excited to come out with me that he forgot his own and was shivering up a storm.”

Mycroft’s face softened. “I see.” He paused and gave Greg one of his curious searching looks,as if Greg were a particularly difficult puzzle he was trying to work out. “You’ve been most kind to him since his arrival,” he continued, “and for that I cannot thank you enough.”

Greg shrugged, fighting a blush. He couldn’t remember Mycroft ever paying him a compliment before. “It’s nothing. He’s a good kid, real bright and eager to help out.”

Mycroft nodded. “That’s why I’ve called you in. Please, have a seat.”

Greg tentatively sat in one of the straight-backed chairs in front of the desk. He had only been in the study a handful of times before, and he felt incredibly out-of-place. He hoped his trousers wouldn’t transfer too much dirt to the fine chairs. 

Mycroft regarded him again for a moment before speaking. “I asked John if there was anything he wished me to buy for him to make him feel more at home here. He could have requested anything- toys, books, games, but his only wish was for a small garden of his own.” 

He smiled faintly, and Greg wondered if he had ever seen such a warm expression on the man’s face. Certainly not in the past ten years.

“A bit of earth,” Mycroft continued. “That’s how he said it. Such a curious turn of phrase.” 

His face flickered, and his usual steely countenance returned. “I’d like for you to set aside a place on the grounds for his garden. Whatever supplies or seeds he may need, just let Mrs. Hudson know and she will purchase them the next time she is in town.”

Greg nodded. “Yes sir, I’ll see to it in the morning.” 

“Very good. That will be all.” Mycroft turned his attentions back to the papers before him.

Greg stood, relieved to see that he hadn’t left an enormous dirt stain on the chair. He turned to leave, then hesitated.

“Sir?”

Mycroft looked up at him. “Yes?”

“I suppose you know where my first instinct would be to set up a garden for John.”

Mycroft blinked, and as Greg’s words became clear to him his features grew cold and dark. In the time it takes a hummingbird to blink he had become the Ice Man, and Greg wished desperately that the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

“No,” Mycroft said, his tone warning.

Greg sallied forth. “Sir, I know what you said before. But I really think you should reconsider. At least think about it.”

“Lady Holmes’ garden is to remain locked,” Mycroft hissed, standing up slowly. “You will find somewhere else on the the grounds.”

Greg winced as the other man referred to his own mother by her title. She’d rarely used it when she was alive, even insisting that the staff call her by her first name. How could he have forgotten that? How could he still be holding on to so much hurt, so much anger, after all these years? 

Not for the first time, he ached to hold the other man and show him that he could be more than just a sum of his pasts.

“Sir,” he said softly. “It’s a fine garden, just laying there fallow. Wouldn’t it seem right for it to be brought back to life by the grandson she never got to meet?”

“Gregory, you are being impertinent.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Greg held his ground and maintained eye contact with Mycroft, though the other man’s gaze burned like dry ice. Though the most reptilian part of his brain was screaming for him to run, to take flight, he forced himself to take a step forward. Then another. Then another, until he was standing at the edge of desk, still holding Mycroft’s gaze.

There was just the desk separating them now. Greg was close enough to see Mycroft’s chest rise and fall with each breath, close enough to see the way his eyelashes fanned across his cheek. He was close enough to see the flicker of uncertainty in the other man’s eyes, the slight crack in the ice that might have signalled a tectonic shift below the surface. 

But as quickly as it had appeared it was gone, and the Ice Man was back with a vengeance. Mycroft’s lips pursed in a severe bloodless line, and were he a man of less self-control he would have probably been on the precipice of violence. Instead, he placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward slightly, spreading his elegant fingers across his paperwork.

When he spoke, it was barely above a whisper. Greg would have preferred it if he had yelled.

“My mother’s garden will remain locked,” Mycroft said. “You will find somewhere else on the grounds, or you will be out of a job. Your sister too. Do I make myself clear?”

The mention of Molly sparked a small flame of anger in Greg’s chest, but it was overshadowed by the sorrow of not being able to get through to the other man. It was clear he’d never get another chance to say anything, and if he did he’d be out on his arse in a moment’s time.

Greg finally broke his gaze and stared down at the floor.

“Crystal,” he murmured, turning on heel and exiting the room.

Behind him, Mycroft let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and sank back into his chair.


	5. Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time Mycroft saw his sister.

“Mycroft, be reasonable,” Annora pleaded. 

“I believe you’ll find that I _am_ being the reasonable one,” Mycroft said.

“Surely, he’s not long for this world. And if he does manage to live he’ll undoubtedly be a cripple. How on earth are you going to care for a crippled child?”

“I don’t know,” Mycroft said quietly. “But he’s our brother, Annora. We have a duty to Mummy and Father to raise him.”

“Mummy and Father are dead! We owe them nothing, least of all to raise some sickly little imp on their behalf.” 

She looked down at Sherlock, asleep in his crib. He was impossibly tiny, with fragile little paper doll limbs. His tufts of jet black hair stuck to his sweaty forehead above ruddy red cheeks, betraying his near-perpetual fever state. His breath came out in wet, wheezing gasps that sounded positively painful.

When Annora spoke again, her voice was gentle.

“They have places for children like him. They’ll take care of him. He’ll have doctors to look after him. He belongs in a hospital.”

“He belongs here, in his home. With us.”

Annora looked down at the floor. “Except there won’t be an us.” She looked up at her twin brother, tears budding in the corners of her eyes. “James, he’s been offered a position as headmaster of a school in India. We leave in three weeks.” The tears crested and fell across the apples of her cheeks.

For possibly the first time in his life, Mycroft Holmes was left at a loss for words. “I,” he said. “I- Annora. Don’t do this. Sherlock and I, we’re your family.”

Annora wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I have a family of my own to think about now,” she said. “Or at least I will soon enough.”

Mycroft’s breath caught. Of course, he should have deduced it sooner. She had been complaining of fatigue as of late, and had asked to take her dinner in her room twice that week alone. Even now that he looked at her he could see the signs. Her nails, once long and healthy were down cut down to nubs, most likely due to breakage. And now that he looked at her face he could see the unmistakable darkening around her forehead and cheeks, the beginnings of chloasma.

“Please Mycroft. This isn’t some issue of diplomacy that you can fix if you just spend enough time in your mind palace. Think of your future. You’re seventeen, you can still find a wife and have children of your own.” Her voice grew stronger as she spoke, and the tears had stopped now. “That’s never going to happen if you’re stuck here playing nursemaid to this wretched little creature-”

“Enough,” Mycroft said quietly.

She continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “Send it away, or better yet just put it out of its misery now. Just take a pillow and-”

“ENOUGH!” Mycroft bellowed.

In his crib Sherlock woke with a start and began to cry. His thin high-pitched wail rang through the room as fat tears streamed down his sallow cheeks. 

Mycroft had drawn himself up to his full height and was positively quaking with fury. His blue eyes bore daggers into his sister and his nostrils flared wildly. Thirty years later, this same expression and stance would cause a notorious Italian dictator to cower in his calfskin boots.

“If you are suggesting that I murder our infant brother in cold blood, I will not have you stay in this house a moment longer. Take your pathetic excuse for a husband and leave now.” 

Annora’s eyes flashed. “You cannot expel me from my own home!”

The corner’s of Mycroft’s mouth turned up in a mirthless smirk. “I am afraid, sister mine, that I can. I am the eldest male heir, and therefore technically the sole inheritor of Holmescroft. I can do whatever I wish. Go into town and stay at the inn, Mrs. Hudson will bring you your belongings by the week’s end.”

“You are a brute, Mycroft,” Annora snarled. “A terrible, cruel brute. You know what the townspeople call you, don’t you? The Ice Man. They say you have no heart, and I daresay I agree with them.”

“Get out,” Mycroft said lowly. “I will not tell you again.”

Annora stormed out of the nursery, leaving Mycroft alone with the squalling infant.

He reached into the crib and lifted the tiny boy, carefully cradling his fragile head and neck as he pulled him to his chest. 

“Shh, shh,” he said softly. The Ice Man persona was gone now, leaving in his place a soft and exhausted Mycroft. “She’s gone now.”

He awkwardly began to rock his brother back and forth. “No one is ever going to hurt you,” he murmured. “I won’t let them. I swear to you, brother mine, I’ll always be here to keep you safe.”

Sherlock’s crying softened and eventually stopped. He looked up at Mycroft with enormous watery eyes, searching the face above his. The brothers examined each other for several quiet minutes before Sherlock’s eyes closed and he drifted back to sleep.


	6. Key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg needs an apology, John needs a key.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! Sorry for the delayed update, work has gotten crazy lately. (Protesters, members of the House of Lords, and extreme data entry, oh my!) I hope to be more regular with updates from here on out.
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta aboxfullofdarkness. Kudos and comments very much encouraged.
> 
> Enjoy!  
> ~Bee

That night it was Mycroft’s turn to be restless. He gave up on the pretense of sleep early, instead choosing to pace his bedchamber like a trapped animal.

Mycroft Holmes never lost his temper. He was the Ice Man for God’s sake, he was calm and collected to a fault. He had stared down raging royalty without batting an eyelash on multiple occasions, yet one stray comment from an ordinary man, an employee, was enough to make him blind with fury.

But Greg wasn’t just an employee, Mycroft thought bitterly. And it wasn’t exactly a stray comment. More than anyone Greg should have known how much that suggestion hurt, how much Mycroft needed that bloody garden to stay locked. 

Greg had been the one who carried Mycroft’s mother back to the house, had been the one to cut his father down from the apple tree. To this day he was the only member of the staff to ever see Mycroft cry, and all of it had happened in that wretched garden. Mycroft was not a superstitious man, but no tragedies had befallen the family since he had locked the garden and thrown away the key, and he was inclined to keep it that way.

(Well, aside from Annora’s death. Mycroft supposed that could have been considered a tragedy, though he himself did not entirely see it that way.)

Still, the look of hurt on Greg’s face plagued him. He was not unused to losing sleep over the handsome gardener, but the knowledge that he had caused so deep a hurt was almost more than Mycroft could bear. 

He wished he could apologize, but that was out of the question. One did not apologize for hurting their servant’s feelings. It wasn’t ideal, but occasionally being yelled at and threatened by your employer was part and parcel of the servant’s existence. The senior Mr. Holmes would be rolling in his grave if he knew that his son was considering begging forgiveness from the help. 

But your father isn’t here, a nagging voice said in the back of his mind. And Greg isn’t just “the help.”

Mycroft thought of how Greg had taken John under his wing without question, how in such a short time he had managed to be there for John in a way Mycroft would never be able to. He had been under no obligation to as much as speak to the boy, and yet he had been nearly willing to risk his own employment to get the boy a proper garden. 

The man had given the boy the coat of his own back for God’s sake!

No, Mycroft was not his father, and Greg was no ordinary employee. Mycroft would have to make things right in the morning, no matter how much pride-swallowing it would require. 

With this thought, he eventually fell into a brief and uneasy sleep. 

*****

Greg was not surprised when Molly knocked on his door the next morning and told him that Mycroft wished to see him in the study. Mycroft had undoubtedly slept on it and decided to sack him after all. 

He trudged along the path alongside Molly, not particularly listening to her gossiping about the kitchen staff. Mrs. Hudson had caught the cook drunk on sherry again, or something like that. He thought about what he would have to do now. He could get another job as a gardener, he supposed, but it wouldn’t be the same. He loved Holmescroft and considered it his own home; anything else would feel like an empty copy. He would miss this place.

And, if he was being honest with himself, he would miss Mycroft. Seeing the young knobby-kneed boy Greg had occasionally played with as a child grow into the man he was today had been one of the most fulfilling aspects of his life. Though he still held onto the decades-old hurts his parents had left behind, he had grown from the experience better than just about anyone else could have. He had taken over the manor, risen to a staggering position of power in just a handful of years, and he had raised his own brother from infancy. 

Greg’s eyes started to sting as they reached the study door. Molly absentmindedly patted him on the shoulder before heading to the kitchens. He scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a calloused hand and took a pair of deep breaths before knocking on the looming door.

“Enter.”

He did as he was told and quietly shut the door behind himself. He folded his hands behind his back and stared down at the floor, unable to bring himself to look his employer in the eye.

“Gregory,” Mycroft said quietly.

Greg forced himself to peek up at the other man, and was startled by what he saw. Yesterday’s Ice Man had been replaced by a version of Mycroft that he had never seen before. He looked about a decade older, with fat grey bags under his bloodshot eyes. Instantly Greg was concerned for him, and he automatically took several steps forward. 

“Sir?”

Mycroft sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face. “About yesterday-”

Greg’s stomach dropped. This was it.

“I-I’m afraid that what I said was uncalled for,” Mycroft said slowly. “And I feel the need to apologize for my brutish behavior. I am sorry, Gregory.”

It took several moments for Greg to process this statement. Not only was he not fired, but Mycroft, the British Government, was apologizing to him for hurting his feelings? He had half a mind to pinch himself, but if this was a dream then he didn’t want to wake up.

“Er, thank you,” he eventually said. 

Mycroft’s face softened and his body appeared to release a fraction of the tension it was holding. 

Greg began to laugh.

Mycroft looked startled by this, which only made Greg laugh harder.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry sir,” he wheezed. “It’s just- I thought you called me in here so you could sack me!”

“Goodness no,” Mycroft said. “I couldn’t fire you.” There was a pause, then the corners of his mouth quirked slightly. “Although, John does seem a bit keen on taking your job.” 

Greg laughed again at this, and Mycroft gave a small chuckle. He looked young once again, and his eyes held that rare mischievous twinkle that Greg positively lived to see. 

For a moment, Greg felt that he had fallen out of time and space completely. The heady mix of relief and joy overwhelmed him and flooded his senses, drowning out the study and Holmescroft entirely. There was just Mycroft, looking young and charming and happy, and Greg, feeling lighter than air.

“Oh, before I forget,” Mycroft said, turning and reaching for his chair. “John left your coat in the foyer.”

Greg took the coat from him, and as he did his fingers accidentally brushed Mycroft’s. 

Even though it was only a momentary brush, Greg felt acutely aware of exactly where it had been nearly a minute after it happened. The pressure, the surprising heat, the slight drag of Mycroft’s soft fingers against Greg’s calloused ones seemed to linger on his skin like a brand, causing a peculiar fluttering sensation in his core. 

He looked up at Mycroft, who was watching him with an inscrutable expression, lips parted slightly as if he wanted to say something else. 

Greg paused, unable to tear his eyes from Mycroft’s. He felt his pulse quicken slightly, and a small, traitorous voice in the back of his mind said “what if-”

Reality came crashing back down around him with a knock at the door. The two men jumped away from each other, separating like shrapnel. 

“That’ll be Anthea,” Mycroft said, throwing himself into his chair and picking up a sheaf of papers.

“Right, I’d best be off to the gardens,” Greg said more to himself than Mycroft.

Sure enough, when he opened the door Anthea was standing on the other side. 

She arched an elegant eyebrow at him. “Morning, Greg,” she said with a smirk. “You’re here early.”

“Yep, and I was just leaving,” he said, pushing past her.

Anthea stared after his (attractive) retreating backside for a moment before glancing into the study at her boss, who was staring intently at the papers in front of him. If it weren’t for the damning rosy blush covering his cheeks it would have made for a convincing show.

Anthea smiled widely and shut the door behind herself. 

*****

When John went outside that morning he couldn’t find Greg. 

This was probably for the best though, because John desperately wanted to explore The Garden and he didn’t think Greg would necessarily approve of his mission. Grown-ups always thought they knew best, but in John’s experience this seemed to rarely be the case.

Up close, The Garden resembled a fortress more than anything. The walls were draped with thick, heavy swaths of ivy which almost completely obscured the grey stone underneath. He could see a few spindly tree branches peeking out from over the tops of the ivy barricade, but nothing else so much as hinted at what was being so carefully guarded. 

John walked the perimeter once, twice, three, four times before he found the door. It was almost completely obscured by ivy, and were it not for a well-placed sunbeam falling through the vines at exactly the right angle John may never have located it. 

With much difficulty he pulled back the vines enough to slip his slight frame through and test the heavy oak door. Of course, it was locked. John grumbled and tried to jiggle the handle, hoping that age and disuse had perhaps softened the hinges, but it held fast.

Just then Greg approached him, whistling a merry tune. He stopped when he saw John and frowned.

“Now John, you wouldn’t be trying to do what I think you’re trying to do, would you?”

John looked down guiltily. “Erm, yeah. I just wanted to see, just for a minute.”

Greg crossed his arms. “I told you, your uncle keeps it under lock and key. He’s been very clear, he does not want that garden opened again.”

John let out a huff of air. “But that was ages ago! And it’s just a silly garden, what would it hurt for me to just take a peek? Just for a second?”

Greg carded a hand through his silver-streaked hair. “I hear you, lad, I really do. But this is something your uncle feels very strongly about, and I can’t go against his wishes.”

John hung his head, and Greg’s heart ached for him. The boy had been through so much, it was hard to deny him such a simple bit of happiness. He worried his lip for a minute before speaking again.

“But you know, the key was lost all those years ago. Your uncle threw it into the grasses somewhere, and it may still be around here. I can’t help you, but if you were to find it all on your own…” he trailed off and raised his eyebrows at John.

John’s face lit up. He nodded, then immediately turned his attention to the ground.

Greg laughed and strolled away. After he turned the corner and was out of John’s eyesight, he slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out the old iron key. 

It was almost completely smooth, worn down from ten years of Greg’s nervously rubbing it. Mycroft had given it to him to throw away all those years ago, but he’d never had the heart. Instead he had kept it, carrying it around in his pocket like a talisman. 

After checking to make sure no one was around to see, he knelt down and placed the key right where the ivy met the grass. He dusted it with a bit of earth for authenticity, but not so much that a pair of ten year old eyes couldn’t find it if they were looking closely. 

He stood up and brushed the dirt off his knees, then resumed his whistling.

*****

That night John found himself too excited to sleep. He hadn’t been able to find the key, but knowing it was out there and that he might have a chance to go into the garden without his uncle knowing was a thrill in and of itself.

When he was sure everyone else was asleep, he crept out of bed and down the hall. He knocked twice on the door he now knew to be Sherlock’s, then opened the door.

“Go away!” Sherlock cried, in a voice that was half whisper and half screech.

John started. “It’s me. Don’t you want to see me?”

“I wanted to see you last night, but you never came. I waited and waited and was still waiting when the sun rose.” His face scrunched and he began to cry. “You lied to me. Now I don’t want to see you.” He dramatically flung himself onto his side and pulled the covers up over his face.

John tiptoed forward and sat on the end of the bed. “I’m sorry, I did mean to come visit you, but I fell asleep. I wasn’t lying to you, I was just tired, that’s all.”

Sherlock continued to sniffle. “Doesn’t matter. I can’t trust you now.”

John picked at a loose thread on the bottom of his nightshirt. “Is there anything I can say to make you forgive me?”

“No.”

“What if I offered to take you out into the garden with me?”

There was a pause. “What garden?”

“Your mother’s garden.”

Sherlock sat up and flung the covers off of himself. “My mother is dead!”

John pinched the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb like he had seen his father do dozens of times. “I know that. But her garden is still here. I’ve been looking for the key, and when I find it I’ll let you come out there with me.”

Sherlock shook his head. “My legs are not strong enough to walk that far. And Mycroft says that if I go outside I might catch my death.”

John was stunned. “You don’t go outside?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I rarely leave this room. On occasion my brother takes me into the library in my chair.” He gestured to a wooden wheelchair in the corner of the room, which appeared to be covered with a layer of dust.

John shook his head in amazement. “You don’t get bored up here?”

“No. I have my books and my equations, and my brother comes and reads to me every evening. I am perfectly happy here.”

John stood up. “Well I think it’s high time you went outside. When I find the key to the garden, I’ll take you down there in your chair myself.”

Sherlock looked worried. “Mycroft won’t like it.”

John shrugged. “He doesn’t have to know. He’s always in his study anyhow. Molly can help us. It can be our secret.”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “I’ve never had a secret before. I think I’d like having one.”

John nodded. “Then it’s settled.” 

He stuck out his hand, which Sherlock stared at blankly. 

“You’re supposed to shake it,” John prompted.

Sherlock furrowed his brows. “Why?”

“Because that’s what people do,” John said. 

When Sherlock continued to stare John reached out and pulled his hand off the bedspread, clasping it in his own and shaking it. 

“There,” he said, releasing a very confused Sherlock’s hand. “It’s settled.”


	7. Robin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John grow closer, and Robin has something to show John.

It took John three weeks to find the key.

His search was made difficult by the weather, which was far different from that in India. John had never seen so much rain in his entire life, nor had he ever been forced to spend so much time inside. He had thoroughly exhausted his interest in Mycroft’s library and had played enough games of gin rummy with Mrs. Hudson to last a lifetime. Whenever the sun deigned to show its rays he was out the door like a shot, fastidiously searching for the key (though being careful to not let Greg know of his quest). 

He made sure to visit Sherlock every night for those three weeks, having learned his lesson when it came to ignoring the petulant bedridden boy. Sherlock was like no friend John had ever had, and he tried to keep in mind that he was the only friend Sherlock had ever had, especially when the other boy was calling him stupid or harassing him for not knowing bits of arcane trivia. 

Sherlock was devastatingly smart as a result of years of doing nothing but reading and being tutored by his genius older brother. He knew of history and politics, human psychology and organic chemistry, biology and physiology, and several other -ologies that John had never heard of before. He taught John all the names for the bones in his hand and explained English parliament to him. He told him about the mind palace Mycroft was helping him build, and promised to teach John to create one when his own was completed. Sherlock knew just about everything there was to know, and John was completely enamoured of him.

But he did not know anything of India beyond what he’d read in Rudyard Kipling novels, and John took no small measure of pride in serving as an expert in the field. He taught him everything he knew about the history of the region, of Hindu traditions, of the caste system. He told him stories of the mahouts and their elephants, how the mahouts lived and slept and even bathed with the animals. He told him of the time he watched them go down to the river to bathe, how the mahouts stood up on the backs of the elephants as they charged towards the water and jumped into the murky depths beside their grey-skinned companions, laughing and whooping at the thrill of it. He taught him to speak some Hindi as well as the few words of Urdu he knew (all of them filthy, of course). Sherlock listened with rapt attention, he occasionally even took notes and made John draw diagrams. For all of his rudeness, it was clear that Sherlock valued John as much as John did him, if not more so.

The first properly sunny day that month came after a long night’s lecture from Sherlock about a book he had just read on dream interpretation. The man had a very Austrian-sounding name that John could no longer remember, but he apparently had some very upsetting ideas about what most boys apparently want to do to their mothers. John had gone back to his room just as the sky outside had begun to lighten, and it felt like only moments later Molly was gently shaking him awake. He dressed and ate his breakfast as if in a trance, desperately wishing that he could just crawl back into bed and sleep. But the sun was shining properly, dripping rays across the dining room table and illuminating each bite of porridge he ate, and John felt so starved for the feel of it on his skin that he forced himself out the front door.

He stood in the door frame for a few moments, blinking in the now-unfamiliar light. The warmth of it made his cheeks tingle, though the air around him still held the bite of winter.

As his eyes adjusted, he saw the robin perched on the top step, just as it had been on his first day at Holmescroft.

It cocked its head at him and let out a small chirp, then urgently hopped down the steps one at a time. Now wide-awake, John began to follow, making sure to keep a safe distance so as not to spook it. 

Just like that first day, the robin hopped a few feet forward and seemed to wait for John to catch up before moving forward. John’s heart was in his throat as he realized they were headed directly to The Garden, and he found himself holding his breath as the tiny bird led him forward. They reached the looming fortress and turned left, hugging the ivy-clad walls until the bird stopped and began to shuffle in place. John froze, unsure of what to do.

Robin began to peck at the ground, tentatively at first, then insistently. John’s stomach sank. It was trying to get at a worm or a beetle. He felt silly, allowing himself to think that the bird was leading him somewhere, that it knew what he was searching for. He muttered an Urdu curse word and started to turn away from the bird, when he heard it.

_Tink. Tink. Tink tink tink._

The unfamiliar, yet unmistakable sound of a tiny beak hitting something metal.

John whipped back around and Robin took flight, soaring high up and over the wall. John took a few steps forward and knelt to the ground, running his fingers over the small indentations the bird had made in the damp earth. He dug his fingers into the soil and felt something hard.

The key.

Covered in a thin layer of mud from nearly a month’s worth of rain, the smooth iron key felt wonderfully solid in his hand. Heart pounding in his ears, John rubbed the mud and grit off of it the best he could before jumping up and sprinting around to the side of the wall with the door. He stepped through the ivy, and with shaking hands he pushed the key into the lock and turned it hard, nearly crying with joy as he heard the groaning click of the lock letting go of its ten year hold on the catch. John used his shoulder to push the door open, and winced at the whine of the hinges.

He took a few steps forward and froze. He wasn’t sure what he had expected from the garden, but it certainly wasn’t this.

The ground was scarcely more than dirt with a smattering of patches of yellowed grasses. The raised stone beds were crumbling and falling over, having been overtaken by masses of wild brambles and vines. Ivy crept around the bases of the trees, choking them and suffocating their thick roots. The only thing that seemed to be thriving in the garden were the wild thistles. The spiny stalks grew straight past John’s head, thrusting their alien purple blooms up to suckle what little sun made its way over the ivy-covered walls.

In one corner of the garden stood a large dead tree, its shadow looming across the walled wasteland. It’s leafless branches jutted out feebly, looking like little more than sticks of kindling. Brittle vines of what might have once been climbing roses circled the base, clinging to the dingy bark. There was a gnarled knot halfway up the trunk where a large branch had broken long ago and the wound had never properly healed. John felt ill.

He didn’t hear Greg come in behind him, and he jumped when the gardener laid a hand on his shoulder. 

“I thought I told you-” Greg started to say in a mock-gruff (but secretly proud) voice when he noticed the tears running down John’s pale face. “Eh? What’s this about?”

“Look at it!” John cried miserably. “It’s the most forgotten place I’ve ever seen. I thought that-I don’t know, I thought it would be something special.”

Greg’s heart ached for the little boy. “Hey now, who says it isn’t special?”

“What? It’s, it’s dead, Greg,” John said wetly, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“It is not,” Greg said indignantly. “It’s wick.”

“What?”

“Wick.”

“What’s wick?”

Greg walked towards the tree and motioned for John to follow him. He pulled out his pocket knife and lightly scraped at the side of one of the browned rose vines. 

To John’s amazement, the vine’s flesh below the dull outer bark was fresh, damp-looking with a springy green tint to it.

“When something’s wick, it means it’s alive even though it may not look it. It’s got that little spark inside, just waiting for the right person to come along and give it the attention it needs to bloom.”

“Is it all wick?” John asked, eyes alight. “Everything here in the garden?”

Greg shook his head. “No, there’s still a lot of dead brush that needs to be cleared out. But the bones of it -- the roses, the trees, the beds -- are all wick as can be. With a bit of work and love, it could be like it once was.”

John bounced on the balls of his feet. “I want it to be that way again. Can you help me?”

Greg scratched at his stubble. Mycroft had strictly forbade him from doing exactly this, to the point where the merest suggestion of it had caused him to fly into a rage. But there was another side to him, a softer side. Greg had seen it so many times, most notably that day in the study. Beneath the “Ice Man” facade Mycroft was a kind man, a man who had worried himself sick about having potentially hurt Greg’s feelings. He could be harsh at times, some might even say cruel, but at the end of the day he was just a scared, hurt young man trying to make the best of a bad situation. And if he could see the garden for what it really was -- a beautiful and fertile piece of land -- it might have less power over him. He might finally be able to let himself let go. 

Greg let out a shaky breath. “Alright, but not a word of this gets back to your uncle until it’s done. And I do have other work to do around here, so I won’t be able to be here all the time. But you’re welcome to my tools, and I’ll do what I can.”

John’s grin threatened to split his face in half. “Thank you, Greg!” he cried, throwing himself into Greg’s arms and hugging him tightly.

Greg was surprised, but gently hugged him back. “You’re welcome, John.”

After a moment John pulled away and turned to survey the garden. “I can’t wait to tell Sherlock,” he beamed.


	8. Pact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock visits the garden.

“Will you come visit me?” Molly asked.

John furrowed his brow. “What?” 

Molly stopped momentarily and pulled her skirts up and out of the mud. She balled some of the fabric up in her fist as she retook her hold on the wheelchair’s handles and resumed pushing. “Well, when your uncle finds out I helped you with this, he’s sure to sack me and probably send me to the Tower of London. I’d like to at least know I’ll have visitors there.”

John rolled his eyes. “Uncle Mycroft won’t find out. And he can’t send you to jail just because you helped me take Sherlock out to the garden.”

“He can,” Molly replied. “He’s one of the most powerful men in the country, he can do whatever he likes.”

“Mycroft is just full of hot air,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. “And I don’t think they let you have visitors at the Tower of London.” The sickly boy was wrapped in three different blankets and his eyes were darting around, trying to take in as much as possible. 

The logistics of getting Sherlock out to the garden were much more complicated in practice than they had been in theory. The ground was still softened and slick from weeks of rain, and pushing the chair through the muck proved to be a difficult task. John and Molly had agreed to take turns pushing, and by the time they reached the ivy-draped walls they were both drenched in sweat and dripping with mud. 

John fumbled with the key, which he had taken to wearing on a leather strap around his neck and tucking under his shirt. 

Sherlock plucked an ivy leaf from the wall and examined it. 

“Hedera algeriensis, if I’m not mistaken,” he mumbled. “Commonly known as Bowles Ox Heart.”

John smiled as he slipped the key into the lock. He shoved the door open and stood back so Molly could push the chair through. “Ta da!” he said, waving his hands.

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then another. He stayed silent for what felt like minutes, eyes slowly scanning the unfamiliar territory and cataloguing everything.

Finally, he spoke. “Is this it?”

John’s face fell slightly. “What?”

Sherlock rolled all his eyes. “Is this all there is? You made it sound like Shangri La.”

“Well I mean, it isn’t much now. But it will be,” John replied defensively. “Greg says it’s wick, and I’m gonna work on it with his help and then it’s going to be amazing, just like it was when my grandmother, your mother, was alive.”

Sherlock’s face softened at the mention of his mother. He looked around again, clearly trying to picture her here tending roses and climbing trees. 

He looked down at his lap for a moment, then back up at John. “Can I,” he paused, his expression achingly bashful. “Can I help? I don’t know how much I can do, but I would like to, erm, help you make it beautiful again.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

John’s grin threatened to split his face in half. “Of course! Many hands make light work, that’s what my ayah always used to say.”

From outside the doorway there was the sound of a twig snapping, and all three of the garden’s occupants jumped at the noise.

“John, I thought I told you not to leave the door o-” Greg said, stepping into the garden and stopping dead in his tracks.

“Sherlock?” he asked, clearly shocked.

“Hello Greg,” Sherlock said stiffly. “I haven’t seen you in some time. You don’t come to play chess with me anymore.”

John was surprised, he hadn’t known that Greg and Sherlock knew each other, much less played chess together.

Greg scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck and gave a roguish smile. “And I’m sorry about that, got a lot on my plate right now. But you always beat me anyway.”

Sherlock sniffed. “Exactly. However do you intend to improve if you don’t come and practice your skills against one with a mastery of the game?”

Greg laughed. “Fair enough. I’ll be sure to come up more often.” He stepped towards Molly and gestured to the boys. “Molls, what’s this all about?”

Molly shook her head. “It was all their idea. John wanted to show Sherlock the garden.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” he said hesitantly. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the blasted apple tree, and it made his stomach turn. 

“Why not?” John said, walking over to the pair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Sherlock has never been outside the house. Fresh air does a body good. Gardening with you has made me feel happier than I have in my entire life. Why wouldn’t it be good for him?”

Greg sighed and knelt so that he was at eye-level with the boy. From this angle he could clearly see the boy’s hazel eyes and the staunch defiance behind them. He reminded Greg of Annora in that moment, though he hadn’t particularly seen the resemblance before. But those eyes, that look in them -- he had seen that a hundred times over in his youth, usually being directed at Mycroft.   
He placed a calloused hand on the boy’s shoulder. 

“He’s not the same as you though, John,” Greg said softly. “He’s very sick, and he’s crippled so he can’t-”

“I AM NOT A CRIPPLE!” Sherlock exclaimed. His high voice seemed to echo within the garden walls, bouncing off rickety trees and overgrown shrubs. “And I am right here,” he continued, more quietly. “I can hear every word you’re saying.”

Greg gaped for a moment. “I’m, I’m sorry Sherlock. That was, er, rude of me to say. I just meant, you know, since you can’t walk-”

“I can walk.”

Greg blinked. “Er, what?”

Greg, John, and Molly regarded Sherlock curiously. He looked defiantly at each of them in turn, then folded his blankets back and gripped the handles of his chair. 

Slowly he pushed himself up into a standing position, teetering on his matchstick legs, thinned from years of disuse. 

Molly gasped and covered her hands with her mouth.

After a moment, Sherlock raised his right leg. The knee didn’t bend, but he was able to awkwardly jut it forward and shift his weight to it. Then he did the same with the left. He had both hands thrown out in front of himself and his face was scrunched up in concentration. 

Quietly, John took two steps backward and motioned towards Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and took two more stuttering steps towards his friend. 

His left foot landed at an odd angle this time, and his arms pinwheeled for a moment. He teetered forward, but forced his feet to move and used his momentum to carry him the final three steps. John caught him in an awkward hug and steadied him on his feet. He helped his friend to turn around, placing a steadying hand around his waist. Both boys stared at the adults with matching looks of defiance across their tiny faces.

Molly was pale, still clutching both hands over her mouth. Greg’s jaw hung open almost comically for a second before he snapped it shut.

“Alright,” he said, voice shaking. “Alright. Just,” he sighed heavily and closed his eyes, “please don’t tell your uncle.”

John, Sherlock, and Molly nodded in unison. 

Greg sighed. “Sherlock, would you like me to help you back into your chair?”

Despite John’s steadying arm, Sherlock was beginning to shake like a newborn colt. He gave a quick nod.

Greg stepped forward and scooped the boy into his arms, gently placing him back in his chair and securing the blankets around him.

Mycroft was going to kill him.

Or rather, Mycroft was going to have him killed, most likely by Anthea. Mycroft had always hated getting his hands dirty.


	9. Almost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly almost gets caught. Greg almost does something he'd almost regret.

By their fifth meeting, the quartet of gardeners was beginning to get the hang of things. 

In the morning they would go to the garden and Greg would set the boys up with the tools they needed. John would get to work pulling weeds and clearing dead vines while Sherlock meticulously re-laid the stones that outlined the flower beds (a job he could do while sitting down). Sherlock would work until he got tired, after which Molly would take him back to his room and help him wash off the evidence of his escapades before laying down for his nap. John would continue to work until suppertime, when Greg would come by to collect the debris and take it back to the burn pile. 

The foursome worked well together, and by the fifth day it seemed like they might get away with it after all.

Sherlock had worked that day for much longer than he had previously, nearly up until suppertime. He fell asleep in his chair while Molly wheeled him back, which she found terribly endearing. 

She had always known him to be an angry and petulant little boy; he had once thrown a bowl of porridge at her head because she had brought him his breakfast too late. But having John around seemed to calm him and make him more aware of what he said and how his words affected others. John was good for him, she thought. He was good for all of them.

Without thinking, she brought the wheelchair through the main foyer instead of through the servants’ entrance. 

“Oh Molly, what have you done?” she muttered to herself, looking at the muddy tracks she had left across the parquet. There was no point turning back, so she continued through the grand hall and up to the main staircase.

When they reached the foot of the stairs, she gently shook Sherlock’s shoulder in order to rouse the boy. 

“Sherlock, love, I’ve got to carry you up the stairs now,” she murmured.

Sherlock didn’t open his eyes, merely shrugged his blankets off and held up his arms for her. 

Rolling her eyes, she turned and hoisted him onto her back, tucking his arms around her neck and firmly grasping his knobby knees.

She was halfway up the first flight of stairs when she heard the unmistakable thunk of the study door down below and the carefully measured footfalls of her employer coming her way.

***

Mycroft emerged from his study completely lost in thought.

The Prime Minister appeared to be going forward with his plans to sign the “Triple Entente,” an agreement that would tether the United Kingdom to Russia and France in a most ill-advised manner. Mycroft was extremely glad that Anthea had convinced him to purchase a telephone (though running the lines out to Holmescroft had cost a small fortune) because he had spent the past several days using it to try and talk some sense into the Prime Minister. While he was normally a quite agreeable man, Sir Henry refused to seriously consider Mycroft’s worries about the potential effects of the agreement. 

It had reached a point where Mycroft was very nearly considering going to London to appeal to the man in person, though he loathed the idea. He worked from Holmescroft nearly year-round, only venturing into the city once or twice a year. He hated being away from Sherlock and the manor, so the mere thought of having to do it had put him in a foul mood.

It was because of this that he didn’t notice the mud in the foyer until he was slipping in it.

He was able to catch himself before he fell, though he made a few very undignified noises in the process. After righting himself, he noticed the two parallel stripes of mud running the length of the entryway.

Before Mycroft had time to process this, a breathless Molly appeared at his elbow. 

“Sir!” she cried. “I’m so sorry about the mess, ah, Cook just received a delivery. Er, I’m not sure why they had to drag their handcart through the front door, but I will certainly be having words with them, I can assure you.”

There were several things wrong with Molly’s explanation, the chief one being that the tracks were far too close together to have come from a handcart. But again, Molly did not give Mycroft time to process this.

“I believe Greg was looking for you actually,” she said quickly. “Had a question for you, I think. He’s somewhere out in the drive.” 

At the mention of Greg’s name, Mycroft’s heart rate increased slightly and all thoughts of the suspiciously wheelchair-shaped tracks vanished.

“Gregory? Very well, I suppose I shall try and locate him. Thank you, Molly.”

He moved to the front door, absently smoothing his hair as he did so. 

Molly took the opportunity to scurry away and rescue Sherlock, whom she had left stranded on the staircase. 

***

“Mr. Holmes!” Greg said, startled. He was carrying a battered toolbox in one hand and a pair of garden shears in the other. His trousers were positively caked with mud.

Mycroft stepped out into the drive, aiming for an air of nonchalance. “Hello, Gregory. Molly said you wished to speak with me?”

Greg’s brows furrowed. “She did?” he asked. “I ah-oh! Yes, yes, I did. I er, wanted your opinion on something.”

“Yes?”

Greg paused. He knew John was going to come tramping up the drive any moment covered in mud and debris from the garden, which would undoubtedly raise Mycroft’s suspicions. Since there was no way to warn the boy, Greg had to get Mycroft out of the drive. 

“Er, follow me. We’ve got to go around back.”

Puzzled, Mycroft followed his gardener around the back of the house.

“Nice weather we’ve been having, eh?” Greg said after a minute of silence.

“Hm? I’m afraid I haven’t noticed, I’ve been quite busy with my work.”

“Right, right. Running the country from the safety of your study.”

Mycroft sighed. “Gregory, for the last time, I hold merely a minor-”

“-position in the British government,” they both said at the same time. Mycroft’s cheeks pinked.

“Sorry,” Greg said with a cheeky grin. “I’m just taking the piss out of you Mycr-ah, Mr. Holmes. Sir,” he added lamely.

Mycroft’s cheeks grew slightly darker. He cleared his throat. “What was it you wished to show me?”

Now that was a loaded question, Greg thought. There were a few things he certainly would have liked to show the attractive younger man, all of which would almost definitely get him fired. He glanced around desperately, looking for something he could use as a distraction. His eyes fell upon the towering mass of climbing roses clinging to the side of the house and he stopped.

“Uh, the _la Frances_ here are, erm, getting a bit out of hand,” he said, gesturing broadly. “Would you mind if I cut them back some?”

Mycroft blinked several times. “No, I would not mind.” He made an irritated face. “Really, Gregory, I despise having my time wasted on such trivial matters. I ask you to simply use your judgement next time and not disturb me from my work.”

He turned to leave, but Greg caught his forearm. “Wait!”

Mycroft froze. His forearm tingled where Greg’s fingers gripped it, and for a moment he imagined the hand sliding upwards and cupping his face. He ached to feel those callused hands against his skin; hands hardened from years of manual labor that still remained gentle enough to coax the daintiest of blooms from their buds.

_Please,_ he thought. 

_Please, don’t take away your hand. Please don’t go away._

 

Mycroft’s pupils were blown wide and his mouth hung open slightly as if he wished to say something. Greg’s stomach flipped. It certainly looked like longing in Mycroft’s face, but Greg’s wishful thinking had been known to cloud his judgement before. He desperately wished he could reach up and kiss those soft-looking lips, muss his perfectly-coiffed hair. But what if he was wrong? What if Mycroft rebuffed him?

He thought of the man that Mycroft had loved before, with his expensive clothes and his posh accent. The man’s hands had never seen a day of work before, and his palms had been soft and smooth. If that was Mycroft’s type then Greg was the furthest thing from it.

Still.

Greg could love him, if Mycroft would let him. And Greg would rather fall on his own spade rather than hurt Mycroft the way the man before had. 

If only there was a way to let him know that, without risking Greg and Molly’s jobs. Something subtle, sophisticated and discreet. 

“Gardenias,” he said suddenly.

Mycroft stared back at him blankly. “What?”

“Gardenias,” Greg repeated, desperately hoping Mycroft would understand his meaning. He was the smartest man Greg had ever met, chock-full of arcane knowledge and useless trivia. If anyone knew the language of flowers, it had to be him.

“When I clear out some of these vines, that’ll leave space for me to plant something new. I’m thinking gardenias. What are your thoughts on them?”

_Gardenias,_ he thought desperately. _Secret, unspoken love. Come on, you brilliant idiot._

 

Mycroft’s face fell as any hopes of getting to touch Greg were dashed. The man was simply asking him a question about the garden, because he was Mycroft’s gardener and nothing more. Mycroft’s male gardener to boot. It was ridiculous to entertain any other notions.

“Fine, fine, whatever you think to be suitable,” he said stiffly, sliding back into his Ice Man persona so quickly it was almost audible. “Though I’d prefer some green carnations,” he muttered, more to himself than Greg.

Now it was Greg’s turn to be confused. “Green carnations? A bit rare, but yeah, I’m sure I could find some if you like.”

“Never mind.” Mycroft moved to wave his hand in dismissal, and promptly realized that Greg was still holding onto his forearm.

Greg coughed and released his employer.

***

Mycroft stalked back around the house, scarcely noticing his mud-drenched nephew coming up the drive.

“Hello, John,” he said darkly, continuing into the newly-mopped entryway. He didn’t stop until he had reached his study and closed the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, I am implying that in this universe, World War I essentially happened because the English Prime Minister didn't listen to Mycroft Holmes.
> 
> 2\. Green carnations were worn by Oscar Wilde and his friends, and most scholars believe that in their circles, wearing a green carnation as a boutonniere meant that you were gay. (http://www.oscarwildetours.com/about-our-symbol-the-green-carnation/) It would have been too scandalous for Mycroft to ever actually be seen hanging out with Oscar and co, but I think he definitely would have kept tabs on their shenanigans and maybe even corresponded with Wilde.


	10. Clouds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John talk about life after death.

When John rose the next morning, he was surprised by the sight of his uncle at the breakfast table. He and Mycroft rarely dined together, Mycroft preferred to either take his meals late or in his study. 

The elder Holmes did not appear to immediately notice his nephew’s sudden appearance. He was deeply engrossed in reading the newspaper; his eyebrows were knit together furiously and he appeared to have forgotten all about the breakfast plate in front of him. Anthea sat on his left, munching on a piece of bacon and reading one of the newspaper sections that her employer had already discarded. She brightened when she saw John.

“Good morning, John,” she said with a grin that made John’s stomach flip. “How did you sleep?”

“Er, fine,” he said, sliding into a chair. “And yourself?”

“Just fine,” she replied. “Though that’s more than can be said for Mr. Holmes, I’m afraid. Says he barely slept a wink.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that,” John said, because it seemed like the thing to say.

“Don’t be,” Mycroft said stiffly, turning the page of his newspaper. “I am perfectly adept at operating with minimal rest.”

Anthea rolled her eyes and smirked at John, who giggled and helped himself to a slice of ham. 

He ate quietly, nervously glancing at his uncle from time to time. Though Mycroft was frowning deeply at the paper his eyes weren’t moving at all, he appeared to just be staring at the words and not reading them. He seemed to be deeply lost in thought.

Mycroft was in fact lost in thought, or rather thoughts, the same cycle of self-flagellating thoughts that had plagued him throughout the night. How could he be so foolish? How could he have thought Greg might care for him? How could he have thought anyone might care for him? He was the Ice Man after all. He was the man you came to for answers and solutions, not love and tenderness. 

After a few minutes of silence which were tempered only by the soft clinking of Anthea’s spoon as she stirred sugar into her tea, Mycroft set down the newspaper and looked over at John.

He had no idea how to speak to children. The only child he had ever had contact with was Sherlock, who was enough like him for there to not be a conversation barrier. He could talk to Sherlock about nearly everything- politics, philosophy, history. But what could one talk about with an average ten year old boy?

“Ah, how goes the gardening?” he asked finally. Though gardens were a bit of a sore subject for him at the moment, it was the best he could do in terms of conversation.

John dropped his fork. “How did you know about that?” he asked, slightly panicked. 

Mycroft blinked several times. “Mrs. Hudson says you’ve been spending all your time outside, and that when you return your clothes are often in quite a filthy state. I assumed this meant that Gregory was able to find you a suitable bit of earth?”

John visibly relaxed. “Oh, er, yeah. He did. It’s good, it’s going very good.”

Mycroft nodded. “Excellent. I’ll have to come out and see it at some point.”

“No!” John said, a little too quickly. 

Mycroft looked taken aback.

“I mean,” John continued, “you’re so busy, you don’t need to waste your time looking at my silly little garden. And besides, it’s not much to look at. Just a place to muck about for a lark, nothing more. May I please be excused?”

Slightly stunned, Mycroft nodded. John folded his napkin and fled from the room.

Anthea smirked and stole a piece of toast from Mycroft’s forgotten plate. “He’s an odd duck, that one. But I like him.”

Mycroft made a noncommittal noise and returned to not-reading his newspaper. 

*****

Molly was now doubly careful in her efforts to sneak Sherlock out of the house, the sickly young boy was spending more and more time out in the garden, sometimes skipping his afternoon nap entirely in order to spend more time tending to the bit of earth that he and John had claimed as their own. 

But as much as he liked working in the garden and talking with John, he could still be moody and distant. He had a tendency to get lost in his own thoughts and completely forget the tasks at hand. 

John was irritated by this, though he tried to be understanding. The other boy had spent his entire life virtually alone with his own mind, so it was natural that his attention span might wane with prolonged activity. Still, even John’s patience had its limits.

One brilliantly sunny Thursday, John discovered these limits. They had both started in on weeding the flower beds early, but after only an hour or so, Sherlock had gone distant, sitting down on the grass and staring up at the sky. He sat like this for several minutes while John toiled away beside him, beads of sweat already running down his nose and dropping into the dry soil. John couldn’t take it anymore, and finally snapped.

“Sherlock, are you going to help or not?”

The other boy did not answer, just continued to stare at the sky as if he had not heard him.

John let out a loud sigh and ripped a particularly large mass of crabgrass from the earth.

After nearly a minute, Sherlock spoke.

“John,” he said quietly. “What do Hindus believe happens to you when you die?”

John froze, a handful of crabgrass clutched in one fist. He had often wondered where Sherlock went when his eyes went blank and his breathing slowed, but he hadn’t expected that line of thought.

John set the crabgrass down on the pile of discarded weeds and sat back on the grass next to Sherlock. He weighed his answer carefully before replying.

“ _Punarjanm_ ,” he said slowly, trying to mimic his ayah’s pronunciation of the word. “It means a kind of, er, it’s hard to explain. Hindus don’t think that the soul ever dies really, just that there’s a bunch of them sort of floating around in heaven, _Pitrloka_. When a new person or animal is born, one of the souls that isn’t being used goes to them. And then when someone dies, the soul goes back to heaven to wait for a new body to be ready.”

Sherlock furrowed his brow. “I don’t remember being alive before I was born.”

John thought about this for a moment. “Me neither. Maybe our memories stay in our bodies? Yeah, they must, ‘cause the souls can be in like animals and plants and stuff and I don’t think there’s anyone walking around with memories of being a garden slug or something.”

Sherlock smiled at this. “No, I would hope not. But what if you could? Wouldn’t that be fascinating -- having a collection of all of the lives you’ve already lived.” His eyes lit up as he thought about it, becoming more and more fascinated with the idea as he spoke. “Think of the wealth of information we could access! If we didn’t understand something about, say, the mating rituals of the garden slug, we could just ask someone who had been a garden slug before and they could tell us!”

John wrinkled his nose. “Garden slugs mating? That’s disgusting, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. “Perhaps to your more base mind, but to the truly enlightened it could open up a whole new understanding of evolutionary behaviors.”

“You’re still the one thinking about boy slugs putting their willies in girl slugs,” John said with a laugh. He had gotten used to Sherlock’s insults and had quickly learned not to take them personally. 

Sherlock cracked a smile which rapidly became a full-body laugh. John made a clumsy approximation of an obscene gesture, which only made the pair laugh harder. 

Molly, who had been weeding one of the raised beds, hid a smirk behind a spray of fresh leaves.

After a solid minute of laughing, John flopped down onto the grass beside Sherlock and gazed up at the candy floss clouds that were lazily making their way across the sky. 

When he was very young, John and his mother would lie on their backs in the garden in India and try to spot shapes in the clouds. It was one of the few activities they had done together, when she wasn’t telling him he was in the way or distractedly pushing him into the arms of his ayah.

“Look,” she would say. “That one looks like a tiger eating a billygoat.”

Or

“Those two look like dragons, guarding their treasure from an army of knights in armor. Clearly they’re getting on a bit in age, so fighting off knights is becoming more difficult. Their next battle might be their last.”

No matter how hard he had tried, he could never see the imaginative scenes his mother created in the wispy trails of vapor.

“That one looks like uh, a rock,” he would say. 

Or

“That one looks like a circle.”

He couldn’t see what his mother saw, but that didn’t matter. She would weave wild, fantastical tales about what she was seeing up above while he would snuggle into her side and deeply inhale her scent, just happy to be near her.

Sherlock’s voice, now devoid of laughter, broke John’s reverie.

“John, does this mean my parents might be out there somewhere? Their souls in new bodies that don’t remember me?”

John suddenly felt quite ill. “I don’t, er, I don’t really know. I suppose they could be, but I don’t think anyone really knows. That’s sort of the good thing and the bad thing about it.”

Sherlock looked at his friend with a puzzled expression. “Why could not knowing something be a good thing? Ignorance is the greatest of all man’s sins, that’s what Mycroft says.”

John chewed his lower lip and sat up, turning to face Sherlock. “I don’t think that’s true. Maybe it is sometimes, but I think I like the not knowing in this case. Because if no one knows, then no one can tell you you’re wrong for believing something. And if the answer is something bad but no one knows that for sure, then you can keep believing that the answer is something good. Does that make sense?”

Sherlock stared at the patchy grass beneath him and nodded slowly. “I, I suppose it does.”

John nodded in encouragement. “Good. So if you like the idea of your parents being out there like the Hindus believe, then you should believe it, because no one can tell you that they aren’t.”

“So,” Sherlock said slowly. “If we were to plant two new things here in the garden, no one can really say that the spirits that get assigned to them aren’t my parents’.”

John wasn’t sure about this, but Sherlock seemed so hopeful that he decided to run with the idea. 

“Yes, exactly. And uh, I think I remember something about being able to sort of attract certain souls. Like if you pray about it, that sort of increases your chances. _Tikka masala_ ,” he said, praying Sherlock had never heard of the dish. “That’s the name of the prayer.”

Sherlock’s eyes shone. “Then that is what we shall do,” he said. “ _Tikka masala_ ,” he said, trying to mimic John. 

John couldn’t feel bad about lying to his friend, not when it clearly brought him so much joy. Satisfied with his answer, he settled back into the dirt and began attacking another patch of crabgrass. 

*****

Later that evening John happened upon Greg on his way back up the driveway.

“How you doin’ there John?” the gardener asked amiably. 

John gave him a tired smile. “I’m good, we got a lot done today. I’m so hungry, though, I could eat a horse!”

Greg laughed. “Well I don’t think horse is on the menu, but I was just in the kitchens and it smells like cook is preparing something good for you tonight. I’ll let you get to it.” He moved to resume his trip down the drive, but John stopped him.

“Erm, Greg, can I ask you a favor?” 

The young boy looked smaller and meeker than he did the day Greg had first met him.

“Of course, what is it?”

John looked down and tugged on the hem of his jumper. “Well, it’s not for me really. It’s for Sherlock.”

Greg’s muscles tensed at the mention of the younger Holmes, but relaxed as John explained their plan to him. The boys were both so young, and the world had already been so cruel to them, but it had not made them hard. Instead, it had simply given them new perspective and a renewed sense of optimism. John was asking for something so small, a pair of plants, so his friend could feel a little bit more of a connection to his dead parents, and yet he still seemed ready to be disappointed. As if Greg could say no to him at all at this point. 

“Of course, John. I think that’s a fine idea,” he said, trying to pretend as if the corners of his eyes weren’t pricking. “Can I make a suggestion on what kind of plant to use?”

John nodded brightly.

“Rosemary,” Greg said softly. “It means remembrance, and love that can’t be forgotten.”

John’s eyes widened and he nodded again. “Yes, that’s perfect. Sherlock will like that.” He paused, looking down again. “And I know I didn’t know them, but I think my grandparents would have liked that too.”

Greg put his hand on John’s shoulder. “I did know them, and I know they would like it. I also know they would be so, so proud of you.”

John bit his lip and looked down again. Then, without warning, he threw his arms around Greg’s waist in a positively bone-crushing hug.

 

From the window of his study Mycroft watched this scene unfold, and felt a peculiar mix of jealousy and despair begin to bubble in his core. 

Greg was not related to John, he had only known the boy a handful of months, and yet John seemed to have adopted him as a father-figure already. The boy seemed to be entrusting the gardener with his deepest secrets, and yet could scarcely stand to sit at the same breakfast table with his own uncle. Not that Mycroft could blame him. Greg was easygoing and affable, Mycroft was cold and distant. Children needed the kind of love and affection that people like Greg had to offer, in order to thrive and grow. 

If John were allowed to remain under Mycroft’s guardianship, he would almost certainly grow up into another Ice Man. Mycroft couldn’t let that happen, couldn’t doom the boy to such a miserable, loveless existence. John would have to leave Holmescroft.

“Anthea,” Mycroft said quietly, not turning from the window. “I want you to write to Queen’s College tomorrow and ask them to prepare a place for a new sixth year student.”

There was a long pause. “Are you quite sure, sir?” Anthea asked.

Mycroft closed his eyes and exhaled softly through his nose. “Make sure they give him a private bedroom, not one of those communal dormitories. I’ll have the Prime Minister write to them and insist upon that if I have to.”

“Yes, sir.”


	11. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives a visit from Mycroft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry for leaving this story hanging for so long. Unfortunately it fell victim to a combination of my busy work schedule and newfound Holby City obsession, though I never forgot about it. There should be two or three chapters left, and I promise to try and get them up within a reasonable timeframe. 
> 
> Thanks as always to my beta, aboxfullofdarkness, and also to 221b_ee for patience and a much-needed gentle nudge.

That night, Mycroft went to visit Sherlock at his usual time.

Sherlock was asleep already, curled on his side with the covers pooled around his delicate waist. He’d been so tired as of late, and Mycroft was beginning to worry. 

He tiptoed across the room and pulled the sheets up around his younger brother’s shoulders, tucking him in the way their mother had always tucked Mycroft in. Sherlock would never know a mother’s love, only his brother's stilted, paltry imitation of it.

As he raised his hand to smooth Sherlock’s flyaway curls, the young boy blinked awake.

“Hullo, Mycroft,” he said with a yawn.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Mycroft whispered. “I didn’t mean to wake you, go back to sleep.”

Sherlock shook his head and sat up, wiping the sleep from the corners of his eyes. “No, I’m alright. I want to stay up and talk with you.”

“If you wish,” Mycroft said, pulling his usual chair to the bedside. “What would you like to talk about?”

Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his quilt. “I thought you might tell me a story about our mother and father?” He took a deep breath, obviously weighing his next words carefully. “And maybe our sister? We did have a sister, didn’t we?”

Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat. “How--how did you know that?”

Sherlock glanced up at him timidly. “Er, Gregory said something to that effect. A while ago, back when he would come up to play chess with me.”

Mycroft felt a small pang in the center of his chest at the mention of the gardener. Gregory had always been so good to Sherlock, and had doted on him as much as Mycroft would allow him to. If it had been anyone else, he might have become angry with them for mentioning Annora to Sherlock, but he didn’t have it in his heart to become angry with Gregory.

He folded his hands in his lap and exhaled a quiet sigh. “Yes, yes we did. Until very recently, in fact.” Mycroft thought guiltily of John down the hall, technically Sherlock’s nephew. They would have gotten along well, he thought. But he couldn’t let them meet, especially not now. 

“What was her name?”

“Annora,” Mycroft answered. 

“Annora,” Sherlock repeated. “Latin for ‘honor,’ correct?”

Mycroft smiled. “Yes, that is correct.” He didn’t think he’d ever stop being surprised by his brother’s intelligence, the way his mind absorbed information so effortlessly. He felt a familiar pang of frustration at the thought of what a waste it was for such a fine mind to be confined to such a fragile body. What kind of a Maker would create such a stunningly brilliant and precocious child, only to make him bedridden and give him a looming expiration date? Not that Mycroft believed in a higher power, but it was still a grievous cosmic error nonetheless. 

“Annora was, ah, headstrong, to say the least,” Mycroft said carefully, remembering their final row over Sherlock’s crib. “And imaginative. When we were children she would always make up these beautiful, sweeping fantasies that we would act out together. We would be pirates one day, and a Greek god and goddess the next. She constructed a little hideaway for us in the attic that mother and father never knew about. We had blankets and pillows up there, and a stash of sweets we’d pilfered from the kitchen when Cook wasn’t looking.”

“You used to play? I thought you must have been born a grown-up,” Sherlock teased.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and tried to hide his smirk. “Yes, I do believe most people fall victim to that particular assumption. They all assume I sprung from our father’s head fully-formed as a stuffy old codger.” 

Sherlock laughed, and for once his laugh didn’t devolve into a hacking chest cough. Perhaps that was a good sign, though Mycroft didn’t dare get his hopes up.

“How have you been feeling?” he asked.

Sherlock looked away. “The same,” he said flatly. 

Mycroft nodded. 

Sherlock glanced back at him. “What about mother and father?”

The room was quiet, save for the mechanical ticking of the clock on the mantle. It was a beautiful clock, one that had been purchased for Mycroft’s own nursery decades before. The ivory face was ringed with an intricate pattern of gold lattice and perched atop an idealized version of a military barracks, all imposing columns and high-flying Union Jacks. Two dozen miniature soldiers stood guard on either side, and every hour on the hour their general would appear from a pair of gold-inlaid doors at the top of the barracks to wave them on to victory. Mycroft had always loved that clock, and as a toddler he had squealed with delight each hour at the appearance of the general. Now however, its incessant ticking just made him feel ill.

After far too many ticks, he finally spoke. 

“You have mother’s eyes.”

Sherlock scooted forward slightly, eager to hear more. He had seen photographs of his parents of course, but they were black and white as well as being horribly stilted.

“Not just the color,” Mycroft continued. “But the same look, same expression. Her eyes were curious like yours, always seeking out and analyzing new information. She had a brilliant mind for physics and mathematics. All self-taught of course, her tutors didn’t think it necessary for her to learn much outside of music and etiquette.”

He paused, fondly remembering how much she had hated hosting balls and dinners. She was a gracious hostess during such events, all dainty dance steps and polite conversation, but as soon as the last guest had been seen out her shoulders would slump and her smile would give way to an exhausted grimace. She would often retire to the library afterwards, where she would remove her shoes and tuck her legs under herself, curling up with a book and a large glass of sherry. Her husband would join her on occasion, sometimes rubbing her aching feet for her, and sometimes settling beside her with his own book, one hand resting on her knee. 

“And father loved her for it,” he said, voice catching slightly. “He doted on her, bought her hundreds of books on the subjects. And she, she loved him back just as much.”

He remembered peering at them from the doorway as a small child, fascinated by the casual domesticity of it. He had prayed almost every night that he would someday find a love like that, someone who would appreciate his peculiarities the way his father had his mother’s. Mycroft thought wistfully of Gregory, of the day before in the garden when there had been a moment of _maybe_ , a split second of _what if?_ It seemed as if that kind of love was not meant for him, that he was only ever to know sorrowful, unrequited kind that sunk into the marrow of his bones and made him ache with the sheer hopelessness of it. He would forever be relegated to that shadowy doorway, outside looking in.

“They built a life on that,” he continued, lost in his own thoughts. “Out here on the moors, away from prying eyes and those who might judge or condemn them.”

“Why would anyone condemn them?” Sherlock asked.

“What?” Mycroft asked, snapping out of his reverie. 

“I said, why would anyone condemn them?”

“Oh, er,” Mycroft hesitated. “Because they were different. Because they didn’t share the same rigid, traditional values that the rest of society held.”

Sherlock pouted and crossed his arms over his chest, looking like a typical child for quite possibly the first time in his life. “Society is terribly stupid sometimes.”

Mycroft barked out a surprised laugh. “Yes, I’m afraid I must agree with you on that point.”

Sherlock smiled briefly and glanced away. After a moment, he said, “I wish I had gotten the chance to know them.”

On any other night, Mycroft might have responded with something flippant and cold, such as _“if wishes were horses, then beggars would ride.”_ Their relationship had never been a particularly tender one; though Mycroft loved his brother dearly he did not have any capacity for tenderness, and therefore often acted more like an academic tutor than a guardian. 

But the past few days had left him feeling open and raw. That day in the garden, seeing Gregory with John, making the decision to send the boy away -- he just couldn’t find it in himself to put up the Ice Man facade. 

So instead, he reached across the bed and took one of Sherlock’s bony hands in his own.

“They loved you very, very much,” he said, surprising himself with his own earnestness. He continued, despite the quiver in his voice. “Even before you were born. The day they, ah, found out they were expecting you...that was one of the happiest days of their lives. And they would, they would be so proud if they could see you now.”

Sherlock was shocked by his brother’s rare display of emotion. Unsure of what to do, he tentatively squeezed his hand and murmured, “Thanks, Mycroft.”

Mycroft nodded and withdrew his hand, slightly embarrassed. He cleared his throat. “Right, well. I’ll let you get back to sleep now.”

Sherlock nodded and curled back down under the duvet. “G’night,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“Goodnight, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, rising from his chair. He bid a hasty retreat back to his own bedroom, where he fell into a fitful, nightmare-riddled sleep. 

 

Sometime around midnight an east wind began to blow, wuthering across the moors and ruffling tiny, hopeful buds in the garden. John's robin sought refuge in the old apple tree and braced himself against the trunk, its bark still scarred from the branch that had broken eleven years prior. He tucked his head beneath his wing, and waited for the storm to pass.


	12. Defense

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to my lovely beta, aboxfullofdarkness.

“Mycroft is sending me away!”

Sherlock jumped, startled by John’s sudden appearance and exclamation. He had beat John to the garden that morning (a rare occurrence) and became quickly engrossed in his task of pulling slugs off the rosebushes. He stood, wincing as his still-fragile knees protested.

“What?” he asked.

“Mycroft is sending me away!” John wailed again. “Anthea just told me. He’s sending me to boarding school and I leave in three days.”

Sherlock’s stomach sank. He immediately began to feel weak and ill, more so than he had in months. 

“But I, I don’t want you to go,” he said slowly. 

John stamped his foot. “And I don’t want to go!”

“Perhaps I can say something to change his mind,” Sherlock said. 

John shook his head. “We’re not supposed to know about each other, remember? If you tell him, he’ll find out you’ve been coming out here, and that will only make things worse.”

Sherlock’s knees buckled and he sunk back down to the now-lush grass. “But it’s...it’s not fair,” he mumbled, eyes welling with tears.

John sat down next to him. After a moment of hesitation, he reached out an arm and tentatively wrapped it around Sherlock’s shoulders. 

Sherlock let out a strangled sob and leaned into the embrace, burying his face in John’s jumper. John soon began to cry too, tears of anger and hurt and frustration. He’d lost everything when his parents died -- his family, his country, his ayah. He’d just started to feel like he had a home again, only to have it snatched from his grasp once more.

They stayed like this for some time, clinging to each other in desperate sorrow. They didn’t hear the garden gate open, nor did they hear the sound of heavy work boots hurrying over to where they sat.

“What’s this, what's wrong?” Greg asked, mildly alarmed.

Sherlock turned his reddened, tear-streaked face up towards the gardener. 

“M-Mycroft is sending John away,” he whimpered. 

Greg crouched down and rested a calloused hand on John’s shoulder. “What’d you mean?”

“He’s sending me to boarding school,” John said. He looked away, not wanting Greg to see him cry. “Anthea said it’s because he wants me to get a good education, but I think she just said that to make me feel better.”

Greg shook his head in disbelief. “That can’t be right. I’m sure there’s just some sort of misunderstanding.” 

John’s lower lip wobbled. “No. He doesn’t like me and doesn’t want to be my guardian anymore.”

A flare of anger rose in Greg’s chest. Mycroft’s Ice Man routine had gone too far this time. Sending his nephew, his orphaned nephew, away to some cold, stodgy boarding school was unthinkable. It was all well and good for him to be harsh and cold to members of Parliament or even his own staff, but treating John that way was a bridge too far. 

He squeezed the boy’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

*****

The study door swung open, slamming against the wall and knocking several books from their shelves.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re playing at, Holmes?” Greg growled, storming into the room and up to Mycroft’s desk. Anthea, who had been perched on one of the visitors’ chairs, leapt to her feet with a startled yelp. The sheaf of papers she’d had in her lap fell to the floor, scattering yellowed documents across the antique rug. She glanced from a red-faced, fuming Greg to a pale, shocked Mycroft.

“I’ll just, erm...” she said, backing out of the room without finishing her sentence. She shut the door behind herself, and after a moment’s hesitation knelt down and pressed her ear to the keyhole.

After the initial shock wore off Mycroft schooled his features into a steely glare. “I beg your pardon?” he asked, in a tone which had been known to make members of Parliament quake in their boots.

But Greg would not be intimidated. That small flare of anger had turned into an overwhelming sense of rage as he walked from the garden to the main house. He didn’t care if Mycroft was the British government, he was still a human being first and foremost, and human beings didn’t treat each other this way. Greg thought of those two little boys, clinging to each other in the garden as if their lives depended on it. Hadn’t life been hard enough on them already? 

“John just told me you’re sending him away. Tell me this is some sort of joke.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “In case you haven’t noticed, Gregory, I am not in the habit of making jokes.”

“How?” Greg asked. “How could you send him away?” 

“Quite simple really, I just sent the headmaster a letter and a very large cheque.” Mycroft did not open his eyes, did not move his hand from his face. Maybe this was all a bad dream. Maybe he would wake up and his horrid sister and her horrid husband would still be alive, living out their days in India with John.

“You know what I mean,” Greg said. “How can you be so cold? You’re all that boy has in the world, don’t you see that?”

Mycroft opened his eyes and lowered his hand. His Ice Man expression had returned, but this was a different incarnation of it. His eyes blazed with a quiet intensity, while his mouth was pulled back into a tight grimace. It was frightening, yes, but brittle at the same time, as if the slightest touch would shatter him. 

Greg wavered, crossing his arms over his chest and rocking backwards on his heels.

“I do see that, Gregory,” Mycroft said coldly. “Which is why I have to send him away. It is better for him to have nothing in this world than to have only me.”

Greg snorted. “That’s bollocks and you know it.”

Mycroft sprung from his chair. “My tolerance for your impertinence is rapidly dwindling, Mr. Lestrade,” he said, voice rising. He placed both hands on the desk and leaned forward. He wasn’t wearing a jacket and his shirt sleeves were rolled up; Greg could see his pale forearms, the muscles taut and twitching with anger. 

“I don’t care, you know I’m right. This is where John belongs, on his family’s estate with the only family he has left. Being here has been good for him, an’ it’s been good for you too.” Greg punctuated this last sentence with a jab of his index finger, stopping just short of poking Mycroft in the chest.

“And why should that matter to you?” Mycroft demanded, slamming his fist on the desk.

“Because I love you, you bloody idiot!” Greg hollered.

Both men froze. All the color drained from Mycroft’s face, while Greg’s cheeks burned scarlet. There was a moment of panicked silence as both men stared at each other, trying to grapple with the enormity of the declaration.

Out in the hallway, Anthea clapped a hand to her mouth. She had known one of them was bound to break eventually, but never thought it would happen like that.

It was Greg who regained his powers of speech first, though just barely.

“Christ, I’m-” he dropped his gaze and scrubbed a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry sir, that was...God.” He exhaled softly, unable to bring himself to look at Mycroft. “I’ll ah, I’ll leave. Resign. I can be out of the cottage two, three days tops. Don’t, don’t worry, you won’t have to see me again.”

Anthea scarcely had time to stand up and dart into the nearest room before Greg threw the study door open and rushed down the hall. 

His heart was beating in his ears, and his earlier rage had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of fear. 

“What have I done?” he whispered. He ran a hand through his silvering hair as he hurried out of the house and down the path to his cottage.

What was he going to do now? Where would he go? Mycroft could have him arrested or sent to an asylum. Molly would probably be out of a job too, and John had definitely just lost his chance at staying. 

Greg had ruined everything.

And yet, there was still a small, traitorous part of his heart that dared to hope Mycroft would stop him, hoped he would come running out and say he loved him too. He walked back to the cottage at a mixed pace, trying to get to safety as soon as possible while also remaining easy to catch.

Back in the study, Mycroft remained frozen at his desk, slackjawed and staring at the open door. He replayed Greg’s words over and over again in his head, sure he had somehow misheard or misunderstood.

But...

_Because I love you, you bloody idiot!_

_Because I love you, you bloody idiot!_

_Because I love you-_

_I love you._

Something in his memory stirred, something from that day in the garden. 

_Gardenias._

Greg had tried to tell him, but he was too thick to understand. And now it was too late. 

Mycroft had ruined everything. 

He fell back into his chair and buried his face in his hands.


	13. Reveal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the chapter number change! This is the second-to-last proper chapter, and then there will be a small epilogue. Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing!
> 
> And my beta, aboxfullofdarkness, is the best y'all.

John and Sherlock spent the next two days in the garden, heading out at dawn and not returning to the house until well after dark. Neither wanted to think about the looming expiration date of their friendship, so they didn’t. Instead they spent their days enjoying the fruits of their labor, for the garden was now lush and bursting with the vigor of spring. They spent their remaining time playing hide and seek amongst the rosebushes, or lying on the grass making up stories about the cloud shapes they saw. They threw dirt clods at each other, searched the bushes for caterpillars, and tried to pack the childhood they had both been denied into a short 48 hours.

In their single-mindedness, they all but forgot about the secrecy measures they originally had put into place. The gate was left open, Sherlock came and went through the front door. Muddy footprints appeared on the parquet, and Molly couldn't be bothered to clean them up.

Not that it mattered, because Mycroft was nowhere to be found.

He spent the first day in bed, something he had never done before. He told Anthea it was due to a headache, a lie she accepted without question. She made it clear to the rest of the staff that Mr. Holmes was to be left alone; she may have intimated that a disturbance of any kind would be a fireable offence at best. 

Mycroft tossed and turned all throughout the morning and afternoon, replaying every memory he had of Gregory, trying to pinpoint the moment everything had changed. 

Was it the previous year, when he had called him into the study to bestow his Christmas bonus? Greg had looked so charming, his roguish grin offset by chill-pinked cheeks and a dusting of snow in his silvering hair. 

Or was it when Mycroft had caught flu? Greg had come to his bedchamber every day with an herbal salve he made himself; it had smelled awful, but offered relief from the painful hacking cough.

Perhaps it was the day Mycroft found his father hanging in the appletree. Greg had cut down the branch, had made arrangements with the mortician. Had not said a word when Mycroft demanded the garden be locked and left to fall wild, simply taken the key and obeyed his wishes.

Or maybe there was no one moment where things changed. Perhaps this was something decades in the making, a snowball that had started rolling the day they first met, way back when they were children.

Across the grounds, Greg was having similar thoughts. He packed up the cottage, a lifetime’s worth of belongings, kicking himself all the while.

If he’d only kept his temper in check, things would have been different. He’d wheedled and worn Mycroft down on a multitude of issues before, he almost certainly could have talked him into letting John stay. 

But no, he had opened his mouth and laid his heart bare, and now he had to deal with the consequences. He would be off to London in two days, leaving just after John. (He hadn’t told the boy he was going; it would have raised too many questions, and John undoubtedly would have blamed himself for it.) He would stay there until he heard back from his cousin in America, who would hopefully agree to let him come stay for a while. If he was very lucky, he’d be able to save up enough money to send for Molly. She had always wanted to see New York City. 

Greg closed his steamer trunk, too tired to continue packing for the day. He crossed to his small bed and flopped down heavily. The meager mattress protested, giving a wheezing whine that sounded exactly like Greg felt. 

He stared up at the dingy ceiling and watched as the haze of twilight cast looming shadows. He watched as they lengthened and disappeared into the coming night, a visual reminder of the passage of time and his upcoming departure. 

He turned over onto his side, pulled his ancient patchwork quilt over himself. He eventually managed to fall into an uneasy sleep, wracked with dreams full of dry, brittle plants and acres of scorched, dead earth.

*****

If the world were a more rational place, the morning of John’s leaving would have been bleak. Sheets of rain would tear at the windows, howling winds would tear shingles from the roof.

But as the inhabitants of Holmescroft well knew, the world is not a rational place. The morning was bright and warm, and the air was filled with birdsong. Mycroft thought he could even smell honeysuckle, though he couldn’t remember there ever being any on the estate.

He spent the morning sulking in the dining room over a plate of cold toast, having sent Anthea into town to post letters and make a few social calls. 

As Mrs. Hudson entered to refill his tea, he glanced down at his pocketwatch and frowned. 

“Mrs. Hudson, where is John? The representative from the school is due to arrive shortly.”

Mrs. Hudson shook her head. “I’m not sure sir. He said he was going out to say goodbye to his garden, but that was over an hour ago.”

Mycroft let out a heavy sigh. John wasn’t going to make this easy for him, was he? 

He went out into the drive and scanned the grounds for his ward. There was no sign of the boy. 

Mycroft glanced around, realizing that Greg had never told him which ‘bit of earth’ he had picked for John’s garden. The Holmescroft grounds were enormous, acre upon acre sweeping deep through the moors. John could be anywhere, and if he didn’t want to be found, it would be easy enough to make that happen.

Mycroft’s palms began to sweat. The representative from the school was due to arrive at any moment, what was he supposed to say? _Ah yes, about that child you’re here to collect. I’m afraid I’ve lost him, would you terribly mind coming back later?_ Wouldn’t that make for a juicy story, Mycroft Holmes, the Prime Minister’s most trusted adviser, outsmarted by a mere child. Lord Loreburn would have a field day with this information, and Mycroft couldn’t afford to lose any credibility now, not with Austria-Hungary beating the war drums. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the outermost walls of his mother’s garden. 

His stomach lurched. Greg wouldn’t have, would he? After Mycroft had so adamantly refused to allow it? He couldn’t have, not if he truly lo-

Not if he truly meant the thing he had said.

Still, Mycroft began walking towards the garden, heart growing heavier with each footfall. He hadn’t walked this path in years, not since that day he’d gone searching for his father. It had been properly paved back then, with neat rows of well-maintained cobblestones. But years of wind and snow and rain had taken their toll. The stones were all but lost to the mud, and Mycroft felt himself sink slightly into the earth with each step, each foot making a soft sucking noise as it left the ground. 

_These shoes will be ruined_ , he thought glumly. 

Still, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. As he grew closer to the garden he could feel memories beginning to stir in the back of his mind. Memories he had carefully tamped down, stored in the cellars of his mind palace. 

He saw his childhood self run past, closely followed by Annora. Their cheeks were flushed and speckled with dirt, and they were shrieking with laughter. 

_“Oh no, Mycroft, look out!” Annora cried. “Blackbeard is going to get you!”_

_“Not if I can help it!” child-Mycroft declared, ripping a small branch from a nearby tree and brandishing it like a sword at his imaginary attacker._

_Adult-Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as he saw his parents stroll out the front door of the garden, his mother’s gloved hand resting in the crook of his father’s arm._

_“And here comes the pirate queen!” Annora exclaimed._

_A mischievous grin broke out across Lady Holmes’ face. She stepped forward, planting her hands on her hips in a defiant pose._

_“It is I, Anne Bonny, your pirate queen. I seem to have misplaced my cutlass though, wherever could it be?”_

_Annora ran to the mulberry tree, plucked off another branch, and handed it to her mother with a clumsy curtsey._

_Lady Holmes raised the branch towards Mycroft. “You’ll never take me alive, rapscallion!”_

_Annora clapped her hands and laughed as her mother engaged in a mock-swordfight with her brother._

_Lord Holmes looked on, eyes shining with equal parts mirth and pride._

Adult-Mycroft stopped and closed his eyes, fists clenching. Memories such as those served no practical purpose. 

He took several deep breaths through his nose as he entered his mind palace. He imagined the scene before him taking place in the cellar; not a dank cellar, mind you, a warm and well cared-for one with wood flooring and crackling torches hanging from the walls. He pictured himself backing up the cellar stairs, hearing the voices and laughter growing faint with distance. He pictured himself reaching the top of the stairs and shutting the door behind himself. With a shaking hand, he turned the key in the lock.

He opened his eyes, and was relieved to see the images before him had dissipated.

And yet…

He could still hear the high, distinct sound of children’s laughter. He shook his head slightly as if to dislodge it, but it was still there, coming from inside the garden. 

He crept forward, unaware of the fact mud had begun to seep into the hems of his trousers. As he turned the corner he saw the garden door swung wide open, its key (where had that come from?) hanging from the lock. Through the door was an expanse of grass, so brilliantly green it made his eyes hurt. 

This wasn’t possible. This was another memory, a hallucination brought on by emotional distress and a lack of sleep. Or on the contrary, perhaps Mycroft was asleep and this was just some exquisite vivid dream. He dug his nails into his palms as he stepped through the door, willing himself to wake. 

He did not. And as angry crescent-moon welts rose on the heels of his hands, Mycroft had to admit that his imagination was not powerful enough to create the impossible image that lay before him. 

His mother’s garden, which had lain fallow for over a decade, was bursting with life. Climbing roses crept across the stone walls, their bright blooms bursting forth with an almost desperate need to be noticed. Foxgloves and meadowsweet stood tall, leaning forward in their beds and casting soft shadows across clean cobblestone paths. A quartet of wood-boxed vegetable beds sat in one corner, filled with sprouting herbs and fresh tomato tendrils. The pond (which had once been home to his mother’s beloved koi fish) reflected the midday sun, and soft ripples rocked a blushing pair of water lilies across its surface.

But Mycroft scarcely noticed any of this. His attention was completely transfixed upon the old apple tree, where Greg, John, and Sherlock were perched on a low-hanging branch.

The boys did not notice the intruder at first, they were too wrapped up in a discussion about a play John’s parents had taken him to see shortly before their death. 

“But why would she want to leave her children behind?” Sherlock asked, not for the first time.

John sighed. “She’s doesn’t want to leave because of her children. She wants to leave because of society.”

Greg snickered and leaned back against the trunk. He was going to miss these boys.

“She at least could have taken them with her,” Sherlock muttered. He wrinkled his nose and turned away, only to catch sight of his older brother standing in the entrance to the garden. 

“M-Mycroft!” he cried. 

Greg started, nearly falling from the bough. The sudden movement startled Robin, who had been sitting on the branch just above his head. He and Greg turned their heads to the garden door. Sure enough, one flabbergasted Mycroft Holmes stood in the entrance to the garden, gaping like a codfish.

_Definitely going to prison then_ , Greg thought. 

He hopped down from the branch, then turned and helped Sherlock down. As soon as the boy’s feet touched the earth, he broke into a run, skidding slightly on the grass as he reached his brother.

“Mycroft, I can explain,” he said breathlessly, eyes welling with tears. 

“Explain?” Mycroft asked in a faint voice.

“It’s not John’s fault, or Greg’s fault. They knew this was a good place for a garden and they knew coming out here would make me better and they were right.”

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock wouldn’t let him.

“They’re my friends Mycroft, they helped me get well. And, and, if you send them away you’ll have to send me away too!” Sherlock steadied his trembling lower lip and puffed out his chest in an approximation of defiance.

Back by the apple tree, John made a small noise of surprise. Greg clapped a steadying hand on the boy’s shoulder, eyes never leaving the Holmes brothers. He heard Robin fluttering anxiously overhead, the only sound in the otherwise eerily quiet space. The spring breeze that had been blowing before had died down, the surface of the pond lay still. It was almost as if the garden was holding its breath, waiting to hear what the elder Holmes had to say. 

After a moment’s pause, Mycroft knelt so that he was at eye level with his brother. He placed a hand on each of the boy’s shoulders.

“Sherlock, you were running.” His disbelief was evident, though he had run out of possible explanations for everything he was seeing.

Sherlock blinked. “Oh, er, yes. I can do that now. The garden, I’ve been working out here with John and it’s made me better. I don’t think I’m going to die anymore, at least not soon.”

With that, the last bit of Mycroft’s resolve melted away. He fell to his knees as fat tears began rolling down his cheeks. He pulled his younger brother into a tight hug. 

“I’m sorry Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

Sherlock awkwardly patted him on the back. “It’s alright Mycroft.” 

“No it’s not,” Mycroft said, voice thick with tears. “I shouldn’t have listened to those doctors. They said you wouldn’t survive infancy, I should have known they were wrong about this.”

Sherlock chewed his lower lip. “You were, you were just trying to keep me safe. Just like always.” He hesitated. “Does this mean John can stay?”

Mycroft blinked back his tears and looked over at his nephew, who was still standing by the apple tree with his hands in his pockets and a frightened look on his face.

“John,” Mycroft said in a soft voice, standing and wiping at his eyes. He kept one hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, as if he was afraid the boy would blow away in the breeze if he let go completely. 

John shuffled across the lawn. His eyes were wide and doleful; he bore the expression of one who knows better than to hope, but still does anyway.

“John,” he said again. “Would you like to stay?”

“For how long, sir?” John asked, a slight wobble in his voice.

Mycroft looked down at Sherlock, standing tall and strong in defiance of every doctor’s diagnosis he had ever been handed. He looked around at his mother’s garden; what was once a mausoleum was now teeming with life and vivacity. He looked back at his nephew, the apparent catalyst for it all.

“For as long as you shall have us,” he murmured.

A wide grin broke out across John’s face, and he launched himself at his uncle, pulling both Mycroft and Sherlock into a tight hug. 

Mycroft looked down at the two boys in wonder, then looked up at Greg. The gardener was leaning up against the apple tree, wearing an expression so tender it made Mycroft’s breath catch in his throat. He swallowed thickly, and mouthed a silent “thank you” to the other man.

Greg gave a soft smile and inclined his head.

The breeze began to blow again, the garden’s soft sigh of relief. The air rustled the leaves and branches of everything around them, including a pair of freshly-planted rosemary bushes standing sentry on either side of the apple tree. As the wind blew their fragrant needles back and forth, it almost looked as if they were dancing.


	14. Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last, we've reached the ending! (There will be a tiny epilogue in a week or so, but this is the true conclusion to the story.) Thank you so much to everyone who's been reading this, and especially to the patient few who sat through my six month hiatus. You're stars, every single one of you.
> 
> And the brightest star of them all is my beta, aboxfullofdarkness. Much love, always.

Out of habit, Mycroft went to visit Sherlock in his room later that evening. 

The day had been a whirlwind of revelations and firsts. The boys had shown Mycroft everything they had done in the garden, and introduced him to the rosemary bushes (which was confusing, to say the least). In return, he had shared some of the precious memories he held of the previous incarnation of the garden, talked of his parents and his sister and the adventures they had shared.

For the first time in his life, he had forgotten all about work. He was spring-drunk, too relieved and invigorated by the revelation of Sherlock’s good health to think of anything having to do with Whitehall or war. In the evening, Sherlock had joined Mycroft and John in the dining room. As the two boys chattered about everything and nothing, Mycroft couldn’t help but look around in amazement. They were sitting down to dinner, together. They were smiling. They were happy. The three of them seemed almost like a real family.

Almost. 

He knew there was something missing, but he couldn’t bring himself to think about what that something was just yet.

 

When he reached Sherlock’s room that night, he was unsurprised to see a sliver of lamplight spilling out from under the door. He eased it open, assuming correctly that the boy had simply fallen asleep with the light on. 

But Mycroft’s breath caught in his throat as he took in the whole scene. John was there too, asleep on top of the covers beside Sherlock. A book on carnivorous plants lay between them, open to a page on _brocchinia reducta_. Sherlock was lying on his back, black curls fanned out across the pillow, while John was curled on his side facing him. John’s hand rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, protective of his friend even in the deepest of sleeps. The only sound in the room was that of their gentle, even breaths, punctuated by the soft ticking of the clock on the mantle. 

Mycroft wavered, unsure of what to do. Should he wake them, send John to his own bed? Or should he leave them be? He had been proven so wrong about so many things when it came to the two boys, he felt completely unfit to make even the simplest of decisions when it came to them.

A moment later Anthea appeared at his elbow, as if summoned by his insecurity. Her dark hair was down, her feet were bare, and she wore a cream-colored dressing gown trimmed with pale French lace. In the soft lamplight she looked almost ethereal, a Titania in search of her changeling boy. 

“I’ll look in on them for you in a bit, sir,” she said quietly. Her voice was gentle, her expression fond. “I’ve a feeling there’s someplace else you should be right now.” 

He quirked an eyebrow at her, which she parried with a head-tilt and a knowing smile.

She was right, of course. 

As much as he loathed to admit it, she was almost always right. 

He gave her his quiet thanks, and without thinking he reached out and gave her shoulder a soft squeeze.

Her jaw dropped at the unprecedented display of affection, but she recovered quickly. She grinned and made a shoo-ing motion.

“Go on, off with you then.”

 

*****

It didn’t seem possible, but Mycroft thought the garden looked even more beautiful at night. The moon was bright and full, casting a soft blue glow across the bushes and beds. The air was still and calm, save for the sound of a small cricket chirruping out a quiet refrain somewhere near the herb garden. And, as Mycroft has predicted, there was the shadow of a figure seated on a stone bench beside the pond, gazing ruefully up at the sky. 

Heart in his throat, Mycroft crossed the garden and sat down beside the other man, leaving a safe distance between the two of them.

Greg didn’t look over at Mycroft. They sat in silence for several minutes, watching the night sky over the moors. Eventually, it was Greg who spoke.

“I always wanted to know more about the stars.”

Mycroft looked at him out of the corner of his eye, not yet trusting himself to turn his head. “What do you mean?”

“You know, like the names of the constellations an’ stuff.”

A few more moments of silence passed. 

“Draco.”

Greg blinked. “What?”

Mycroft pointed straight above them, gesturing in a careful serpentine movement. “Just south of the North Star there, that cluster of four and about ten or so reaching out.”

“Okay, yeah. I see it.” 

“That’s called Draco, the dragon. It’s said that Athena slayed him and threw him up into the sky, where he froze above the North Pole.”

Greg nodded. “What’s that one next to it?”

“Cygnus,” Mycroft answered. “Attributed to the myth of Cyncus. After his brother crashed his chariot into the river and died, Cyncus spent days diving into it to collect his bones for a proper burial. The gods were so moved by his devotion that they turned him into a swan and released him into the ether.”

Greg made a small humming noise in the back of his throat. 

Soon the lonely cricket in the corner was joined by a friend, and together they fell into a lilting duet.

Mycroft looked down at his trousers, which still bore the stains from earlier. He picked at a dollop of dried mud on his knee as the breeze began to pick up again. He smelled honeysuckle, lavender, sage from the herb bed.

“I don’t want you to go,” he said finally.

“Okay.” Greg glanced over, waiting for him to continue.

Mycroft looked down at his hands. “That’s as far as I’ve gotten,” he said with a sheepish smile. 

Greg huffed a laugh. “It’s a start.”

_A start._

A small bubble of hope bloomed in Mycroft’s chest. He was suddenly very glad for the blanket of night, as it masked his pinking cheeks.

Feeling emboldened, he continued. “And I suppose I should also say that I...I reciprocate the, er, what you said the other day.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw flash of white teeth, a puckish grin illuminated by moonlight.

“I say a lot of things, Mycroft,” Greg teased. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

Mycroft groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Oh please, just put me out of my misery,” he mumbled.

“If you insist.”

Mycroft felt warm, calloused hands cover his own, gently tugging them away from his face. He looked up to see Greg, sitting closer now than he had been before. His pupils were wide in the dim light, and Mycroft felt pinned by his gaze. No, not pinned. Pinned implied entrapment, pain. A butterfly stuck through and mounted on a sheet of cork. Greg’s gaze made Mycroft feel...inevitable. Like Greg was the center of a labyrinth, one with an infinite number of possible solutions, all of which would end with the same result. 

Slowly, without breaking eye contact, Greg raised Mycroft’s right hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss on the palm. Mycroft felt the softness of his lips, the gentle puff of breath against his wrist. Felt his own head begin to spin as his heartbeat drummed in his ears. Greg lowered his hand, eyes still locked with Mycroft’s.

Mycroft let out a tiny gasp. It was the smallest of sounds, and to an outside observer it would have seemed inconsequential. But it echoed between the two men like a rolling thunderclap; it was not an inhalation of air, it was the sound of a decade’s worth of walls and defenses falling and turning to dust.

Greg instinctively shifted forward at the sound, then paused. _No_ , he thought. _It has to be Mycroft._

__

Mycroft gaze flicked down to Greg’s lips, then back up. He felt as if he was suddenly on the edge of a precipice, and he had to choose between jumping or falling. 

__

Either way, he knew Greg would be there to catch him. 

__

With a soft keening sound he surged forward, closing the distance and pressing his lips to Greg’s. He wound his arms around Greg’s waist and fisted his hands in the gardener’s shirttails, holding him as close as he dared. Greg let out a soft sigh against Mycroft’s lips, raising trembling hands to cup his smooth-shaven jaw. 

__

The kiss was soft and sweet, desperate but not entirely unchaste. It was a relief; an outpouring of at least a decade’s worth of pent-up passion and unspoken devotion, mingled with the fraught anguish at the realization of how close they had come to losing one another. At some point, Greg felt tears running down his cheeks, though he wasn’t sure if they were his or Mycroft’s. 

__

Eventually the kiss slowed, devolving into a series of loose-lipped pecks. Mycroft was the first to pull away, but only just. He rested his forehead against Greg’s, somehow managing to find the other man’s hands and lace their fingers together. 

__

Greg let out a shaky breath, nudging the tip of Mycroft’s nose with his own. 

__

“Still miserable?” he asked with a teasing grin. 

__

Mycroft beamed. “Not in the slightest,” he said, incapable now of anything but exuberant honesty. 

__

He leaned in and brushed his lips against Greg’s again, simply because he could. He had spent so much time not kissing Greg that it seemed a pity to not take advantage of their proximity now. 

__

He didn’t realize he had vocalized this sentiment until Greg pulled back, gaping slightly. 

__

Mycroft’s cheeks pinked again, and he gave a helpless shrug. 

__

Greg closed his eyes and exhaled softly. “Giving me a hell of an incentive not to leave now, Holmes,” he said, corners of his mouth teasing upwards. 

__

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and worry. “I should hope so. You won’t...you aren’t still planning on leaving, are you?” he asked. 

__

Greg gave a wry grin, obviously tamping down a smart-arsed comment. “‘Course I’m not. I’ll unpack the cottage tomorrow.” 

__

Mycroft looked down at their joined hands shyly. “I was rather hoping you might choose to live in the main house. With me,” he added, as if the point needed clarification. 

__

Greg worried his bottom lip with his teeth. “Are you sure? I mean, I know we’re isolated out here, but there’s still a bit of a risk...” he trailed off. 

__

Mycroft glanced out at the pond, saw the impossibly large moon reflected on its surface. He thought of all the impossible things that had happened in the past few months. He’d found out the man he loved felt the same way about him. His mother’s garden, a veritable mausoleum, had been brought back to life. His younger brother who was never supposed to live (let alone walk) had become well, and was now gardening and running and climbing trees. 

__

If all of these mad, impossible things could come to pass, what was one more? 

__

He looked back at his lover and felt warmth begin to spread throughout his chest. Thoughts and feelings that had been long-dormant began to bloom within him, feelings of hope and joy and restless excitement. He wanted to chase these feelings, to see them branch out and bear fruit. He wanted to grow; more so, he wanted his relationship with Greg to grow. 

__

He lifted Greg’s hands to his lips and kissed the back of each of them. He looked up into Greg’s eyes, so warm and transfixing, and knew he could happily spend the rest of his days looking into them. 

__

“Gregory,” he said. “I have never been more sure of anything in my entire life.” 

  
_You clear away the dead parts_  
_so the tender buds can form._  
_Loosen up the earth and let the roots get warm,_  
_let the roots get warm..._  
_Somewhere there's single streak of green below,_  
_and all through the darkest nighttime_  
_it's waiting for the right time._

_When a thing is wick, it will grow._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eagle-eyed readers will notice snippets of dialogue *borrowed* from both Holby City and The West Wing in this chapter. 
> 
> And here's a link to the title song: https://youtu.be/Qbpze63j8S8


End file.
